A  THOUSAND  FACES 


A  Thousand  Faces 


BY 

FLORENCE  SEYLER  THOMPSON 

AND 

GEORGE  W.  GALVIN,  M.D. 


BOSTON:    RICHARD    G.   BADGER 

TORONTO:    THE   COPP  CLARK  co.,  LIMITED 


COPYRIGHT,  1915,  BY  RICHARD  G.  BADGER 


All  Rights  Reserved 


The  Gorham  Press,  Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


PREFACE 

5 

THE    JUNGLE,"    by    Upton    Sinclair,    compelled    , 
Roosevelt  to  investigate  the  Beef  Trust.     "The 
Turn  of  the  Balance,"  by  Brand  Whitlock,  showed  the    ( 
appalling   conditions   of  our  jails   and   penitentiaries, 
which  are  stocked  with  victims  of  our  police  depart 
ments   and  of  private  detective  agencies,  as  many  in 
nocent  as  guilty.     Both  books  are  considered  master 
pieces   in  description  of   actually  existing   conditions. 
Both  created  intense  interest  among  those  who  labor 
for  the  uplifting  of  the  millions  in  our  social  abyss. 

It  is  hoped  that  "A  THOUSAND  FACES,"  which 
gives  a  glimpse  of  our  living  hells,  designated  as  asy 
lums  for  the  insane  and  private  sanitariums,  will  stir 
every  man  and  woman  of  red  blood  to  immediate  ac 
tion  in  behalf  of  those  who  cannot  speak  for  them 
selves. 

In  offering  this  book,  the  thanks  of  society  are  due 
to  Mrs.  Charles  B.  Galvin,  nee  Antoinette  E.  Gaz- 
zam,  whose  financial  aid  enabled  the  writers  to  prose 
cute  secret  investigations,  the  cost  of  which  necessi 
tated  the  expenditure  of  thousands  of  dollars.  Ac 
knowledgment  is  also  made  for  the  services  rendered 
by  George  Allan  England,  in  the  revision  of  the  MS. 
and  reading  of  the  proofs. 

In  every  State  in  the  Union  sane  men  and  -women  are 
railroaded  into  madhouses  for  life.  Not  one  incident 
in  this  book,  portraying  conditions  there,  is  overdrawn 
or  exaggerated.  On  the  contrary,  the  half  cannot  be 
told,  so  revolting  is  the  naked  truth  about  these  hell 
holes  of  modern  "civilization."  Actual  fact  forms 
the  basis  of  every  statement  made,  of  every  descrip 
tion  written  here.  And  shall  you  not  bestir  your 
selves?  Or  are  you  among  those  who  "don't  care  what 
happens,  so  long  as  it  doesn't  happen  to  you?" 

GEORGE  W.  GALVIN,  M.D. 


A  THOUSAND  FACES 


CHAPTER    I 

Two  Men 

SHE'S  a  wonder,  and  she's  bound  to  win !" 
As  if  to  sign  approval  to  this  hearty  exclama 
tion  and  to  give  positive  promise  of  success,  the  glow 
ing  sun  of  prairie  spring,  escaping  from  an  April  cloud, 
flooded  with  light  the  large,  rather  oddly  furnished 
room. 

Dr.  Phillips  had  kept  so  long  a  silence  that  the 
smooth,  high  brows  of  the  youth  beside  him  were  be 
ginning  to  show  a  trace  of  impatience.  But  this  cloudy 
expression  changed  into  a  smile  that  seemed  brighter 
than  April's,  when  the  Doctor,  rousing  from  the  en- 
trancement  in  which  he  had  been  studying  the  model, 
uttered  these  words  with  a  ring  of  conviction  and  of 
profound  admiration. 

"She's  a  wonder,  my  boy,  and  so  are  you,"  continued 
the  critic,  laying  a  hand  affectionately  on  the  shoul 
der  of  the  youth,  "to  have  dreamed  and  put  in  shape 
such  a — beauty !  This  ought  to  spell  fame  and  for 
tune.  By  my  soul,  it  seems  flawless !  Of  course  you've 
taken  out  a  patent?" 

"Trust  me  for  that!"  replied  the  younger  man. 
"I've  seen  dear  old  dad  lose  his  rights  in  too  many 
valuable  inventions  through  carelessness  or  overtrust- 
fulness  in  others  not  to  profit  by  his  bad  example.  I've 

9 


10  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

got  my  patent  for  this  machine  safe  in  this  pocket  over 
my  heart,  just  like  a  love-letter,  you  know." 

Then  he  laughed  charmingly  and  tossed  back  his 
beautiful  Greek  head  with  its  wavy  auburn  hair,  a  gift 
from  his  Norse  mother.  Indeed,  he  looked  like  Baldur 
the  Beautiful,  incarnated  once  more,  as  the  April 
sunshine  played  over  him  in  the  workshop — a  sun-god 
in  slight  disguise  revisiting  the  earth ;  except  that  his 
hands  were  not  those  of  a  poet,  artist,  deity.  The 
fingers  were  short  and  spatulate,  the  thumbs  longer  and 
thicker  than  the  average  for  one  of  his  medium  build. 

Between  him  and  his  masterpiece,  the  model,  his 
companion's  gaze  alternated,  with  more  in  it  now  than 
words  can  readily  translate.  The  Doctor's  eyes  nar 
rowed  as  the  younger  man  added,  touching  his  model 
with  a  caressing  hand:  "Even  though  I  know  there's 
millions  in  it,  as  it  stands,  money  isn't  the  sum  of  life. 
I  know  this,  young  as  I  am !  I  want  money,  need  money, 
money  in  millions,  to  do  things  with.  Ah!  you  smile; 
but  it's  there,  right  in  that  machine ;  and  you  know  it !" 

"Nay,"  said  the  Doctor,  "I  was  merely  smiling  at 
your  enthusiasm.  You  know  I  do  think  your  invention 
a  marvel;  and  if  you  can  get  proper  backing,  I  be 
lieve  it  will  be  a  winner.  I  know  it !  I  wish  I  felt  as 
sure  of  the  success  of  my  treatment  of  your  father 
as  I  do  of  your  machine !" 

A  covert  smile  gleamed  through  his  grave  visage, 
as  Fitzgerald  bent  over  the  model  to  blow  away  some 
specks  of  dust. 

"Yes,  I  wish  to  God  I  believed  in  my  medicines  as 
fully  as  I  do  in  this !" 

Harold  straightened  suddenly  with  a  look  of  sur 
prise,  t 

"Why,  Doctor,  I  thought  he  was  getting  better 
steadily.  His  appetite  is  good;  his  eyes  are  brighter 


TWO  MEN  11 

than  ever,  and  he  has  been  speaking  lately  with  cheer 
ful  confidence  of  our  future.  Only  yesterday  I  was 
thinking  that  never  since  mother's  death  have  I  known 
him  to  show  such  a — what  shall  I  call  it? — resilience  of 
spirit.  What  is  it  that  alarms  or  puzzles  you  now?" 

"Frankness,  Harold,"  answered  the  Doctor,  "is  one 
of  my  few  redeeming  qualities.  It  has  been  on  my  lips 
for  some  time  to  tell  you  I  believe  my  treatment  is  not 
curing  your  father ;  is  merely  prolonging  his  life ;  and 
that  the  end  may  come  at  any  moment." 

Harold  stared  at  him  with  wide  eyes.  His  face  had 
suddenly  gone  very  pale. 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  the  Doctor,  "you  must  brace 
up  like  a  man,  and  face  this  thing ;  a  thing  which  in 
the  course  of  nature  must  happen  sooner  or  later.  For 
give  me,  if  I  have  been  too  abrupt  in  speaking  of  this ; 
but  I  realize  my  own  limitations,  and  I  want  you  to 
call  in  another  physician.  Your  father  will  not  listen 
to  my  suggestion  of  this.  He  declares  I  have  done 
wonders  for  him;  but,  Harold,  I  know  better.  His 
heart  cannot,  I  fear,  be  really  rejuvenated.  I  certainly 
have  only  tinkered  it  up,  and  though  I  stand  high  in 
my  profession,  I  am  not  a  heart-specialist." 

A  look  stole  momentarily  into  Phillips'  face  from 
some  secret  recess  of  nature  darker  than  his  visage ; 
a  look  not  good  to  see,  in  countenance  of  man  or  of 
woman.  It  was  like  a  writhe,  seen  by  a  lightning  flash, 
of  some  strange,  pre-Adamite,  reptilian  monster  wal 
lowing  in  ooze  and  slime. 

But  Harold  was  not  looking  at  the  Doctor.  Even 
had  he  been,  so  slight  and  evanescent  was  the  expres 
sion,  he  might  have  failed  to  note  it ;  or,  catching  it, 
have  missed  the  meaning,  the  warning  of  secret  evil 
which  it  held.  When  he  did  again  lift  eyes  of  sud 
den  trouble  to  the  physician's  face,  nothing  sinister 


12  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

showed  there.  It  was  kindly,  sympathetic,  almost  be 
nignant  ;  and  Harold,  grave  as  was  now  his  new  con 
cern,  could  not  but  think  what  an  impressively  hand 
some  man  his  new-found  friend  was. 

After  a  pause,  as  though  of  expectation,  he  answered 
in  a  slow,  labored  voice,  like  one  just  coming  out  of 
a  daze : 

"Where  shall  I  find  a  heart-specialist,  at  once? 
Whom  do  you  recommend?" 

"There's  a  Chicago  man  named  Shively,  John  Har 
rington  Shively,  believed  to  know  more  about  the  heart 
than  any  man  west  of  Boston ;  but  his  fee  for  coming 
so  far  would  be  pretty  steep,"  answered  Phillips,  low 
ering  his  eyes-  as  though  to  veil  his  soul.  "If  your  ma 
chine  were  on  the  market,  his  fee  would  be  a  mere  trifle ; 
but,  as  it  is — I  don't  of  course,  know  your  present  re 
sources,  yet  even  persons  with  resources  don't  always 

have  a  thousand  dollars  lying  idle  in  their  bank. 
j " 

"A  thousand  is  nothing — thousands — millions — are 
nothing,"  cried  Harold  impetuously,  "in  comparison 
with  the  best  of  help  in  my  father's  case !  Luckily  I 
do  happen  to  have  at  this  moment  considerably  more 
than  a  thousand  of  the  money  mother  left — to  me 
especially— I  suppose  because  of  a  belief  I  wouldn't 
spend  it  quite  so  fast  as  dear  dad  on  inventing  things. 
I'll  telegraph  Dr.  Shively  immediately.  Better  still,  I'll 
call  him  up  on  the  long  distance  'phone.  Wait  here 
for  me,  Doctor,  and  study  my  machine  still  more 
closely.  Try  to  find  a  flaw  in  it !  Your  praise  hasn't 
puffed  me  up ;  it  has  made  me,  on  the  contrary,  a  bit 
afraid.  Perhaps  I've  been  dreaming  too  sanguinely.  I 
know  there's  a  dream-streak  somewhere  in  my  nature. 
I  must  have  inherited  that,  at  least,  from  dear  old  dad, 
whose  dreams  have  never  come  true.  But  he  says  that 


TWO  MEN  13 

mine  must,  and  will,  to  make  amends." 

He  looked  a  moment  at  the  calm  countenance  of 
Dr.  Phillips ;  then  left  the  workshop.  Phillips,  in  a 
sort  of  automatic  way,  wheeled  up  an  old  morris-chair 
and,  stretching  himself  at  full  length  in  it,  began  to 
stare  at  the  model  on  the  small  table,  as  if  under  a 
spell.  Harold  did  not  come  back  as  soon  as  expected, 
and  the  Doctor's  reverie  grew  deeper. 

What  was  it  all  about? 


CHAPTER    II 

Concerning  Dr.  Phillips 

WHAT  kind  of  man  was  Dr.  Phillips? 
Kindly,    sympathetic    and    handsome,    impres 
sively  handsome  he  appeared  to  Harold  Fitzgerald. 

Phillips,  now  hypnotized  by  the  model,  was  well  worth 
studying. 

Nine  men  out  of  ten  would  have  agreed  in  con 
sidering  the  physician  a  very  fine  specimen  in  face 
and  figure,  as  well  as  mentally ;  and  presumably  in 
morals,  as  well.  Ninety-nine  women  out  of  a  hundred 
would  have  pronounced  him  unusually  handsome ;  and 
half  of  them,  if  young  and  inexpert  in  men,  would  have 
found  him  more  than  handsome — fascinating! 

But  the  tenth  man-critic  would  have  been  likely  to 
say  that  the  brilliant,  restless,  black  eyes  of  Dr.  Phillips 
were  set  under  the  high  arch  of  his  brow  just  an  eighth 
of  an  inch  too  near  each  other ;  and  might  have  added 
that  the  two  long  locks  of  raven  hair,  often  nearly 
brushing  his  black  low-arching  eyebrows,  with  his 
pointed  beard  and  the  purple  cord  attached  to  his  gold- 
rimmed  eye-glasses,  were  the  things  that  gave  his  dark 
face  distinction  in  the  average  woman's  eyes. 

His  nose  was  a  thin,  flattish  aquiline,  remarkably 
like  those  of  many  Egyptian  mummies,  in  profile  even 
more  than  in  full-face.  The  habitual  expression  of  his 
lips  was  hidden  by  a  soft  moustache  through  which 
fine  teeth  gleamed  when  he  talked. 

His  figure  was  undeniably  elegant,  in  its  tall  grace. 

14 


CONCERNING  DR.  PHILLIPS  15 

His  ordinary  dress  was  far  more  stylish  than  that  of 
most  members  of  his  hard-working  profession ;  his 
color-preference  being  gray,  and  often  a  gray  of  close 
texture  and  smooth  silvery  quality  which  both  caught 
and  rested  the  eye  with  a  sense  of  coolness.  His  car 
riage  suggested  swift  and  wiry  strength. 

His  voice  was,  perhaps,  his  most  remarkable  per 
sonal  asset.  Generally  very  even,  with  few  modula 
tions  and  no  hint  of  depth  or  volume,  nevertheless  it 
carried  well,  and  in  ordinary  conversation  seemed  to 
have  a  singular,  lulling  effect  on  most  listeners.  One 
of  his  envious  confreres  declared  that  Dr.  Phillips' 
"bamboozling  tones  and  bedside  manners  were  his  best 
stock  in  trade."  This  was  untrue,  for  the  man  had 
acquired  great  skill — particularly  in  nervous  disorders 
and  in  surgery. 

The  reputation  he  had  gained  in  private  practice, 
while  still  young,  had  finally  led  him  to  establish  a  pri 
vate  hospital  and  sanitarium  on  the  outskirts  of  Min 
neapolis.  This  he  was  conducting,  when  chance  had 
made  him  acquainted  with  the  Fitzgeralds.  They  had 
inherited  through  the  mother  and  wife,  Hilda,  from  her 
uncle,  a  wealthy  Norwegian  recluse,  enough  money 
for  comfortable  maintenance,  and  a  life-tenure  of  a 
thirty-acre  estate  with  a  spacious  old  house,  not  far 
from  the  spot  where  Phillips  had  planted  his  hospital 
on  the  extreme  fringe  of  the  city,  fronting  a  rapidly 
disappearing  prairie. 

It  seemed  to  Dr.  Phillips  that  he  had  been  called 
in,  when  the  Fitzgeralds  had  come  from  their  life 
long  home  at  Dunkirk,  Pennsylvania,  just  in  the  nick 
of  time  to  rehabilitate  his  fortunes.  For,  successful 
though  this  man  had  been,  and  still  seemed,  his  life 
had  for  some  years  been  beset  with  ugly  fears  and 
webbed  with  subtile  complications. 


16  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

The  foundation  of  his  trouble  was  not  of  his  own 
making.  An  automobile  accident  in  which  he  had  nar 
rowly  escaped  death  had  left  the  vision  of  one  eye  seri 
ously  impaired  by  a  minute  steel  splinter,  and  the  other 
eye  had  become  particularly  sympathetic  with  its  in 
jured  mate,  when  under  strain. 

No  visible  sign  of  this  appeared.  Both  of  his  rest 
less  black  eyes  were  brilliant  as  ever ;  but  Phillips  knew 
well  that  his  career  as  a  surgeon  was  practically  over. 
He  no  longer  dared  trust  himself  with  delicate  opera 
tions. 

Meantime,  having  always  been  without  morals,  he  had 
been  led  by  his  loose  passions  to  snarl  his  domestic 
affairs.  He  was  now  living  mentally  on  edge — grop 
ing  in  a  creepy,  crepuscular  region  where  two  explo 
sions  were  likely  to  occur  at  any  minute,  and  to  result 
in  exposure,  disgrace,  ruin.  An  excitable,  suspicious, 
morphine-using  wife,  and  an  originally  wronged,  ex 
acting  mistress  under  the  same  roof ;  blindness  threat 
ening;  professional  prowess  halted;  progress  for  the 
future  stalled;  these  were  the  problems  for  Sydney 
Phillips  to  solve,  if  he  could. 

Had  anyone  of  penetrant  vision,  though  but  par 
tially  aware  of  Dr.  Phillips'  problem,  beheld  him  now, 
staring  so  intently  at  the  model — hypnotized,  obsessed 
by  it — the  inference  would  have  seemed  fair  that  the 
solution  of  everything  lay  there. 

And  such  inference  would  have  received  confirma 
tion  when  he  started  up  at  a  footstep  breaking  his  day 
dream,  and  abruptly  exclaimed:  "By  God,  he's  right. 
There  are  millions  in  it !"  His  eyes  f ocussed  gleam- 
ingly  on  the  floor.  "Millions,  by  my  soul,  for  a  mere 
boy  to  play  with — if  some  keener  fellows  don't  euchre 
him  at  the  start.  I  must  keep  a  lookout  on  that !" 

"On  what?"  cried  Harold,  reentering.     He  glanced 


CONCERNING  DR.  PHILLIPS  17 

inquiringly  about.     "Who  were  you  speaking  to?" 

"Ha !"  answered  Phillips,  a  little  confused.  "Did 
you  catch  me  talking  to  myself?  Queer  trick,  isn't  it? 
My  mind,  dear  Harold,  was  on  your  model  still,  and  I 
guess  I  was  communing  with  myself  to  the  effect  that 
I  ought  to  keep  watch  over  you,  lest  you  go  into  part 
nership  too  hastily  with  men  who  might  cheat  you  of 
your  reward.  You  will  have  to  get  substantial  backing, 
of  course,  to  put  your  million-maker  on  the  market; 
_  but  you  must  be  mighty  careful  in  picking  the  men 
you  tie  up  with  as  partners  and  promoters." 

"I  know  that,"  assented  Harold.  "Mother  and  I 
have  seen  father  euchered  by  capitalists  often  enough 
to  make  us  wise.  But  the  bankers  in  Dunkirk  are  hon 
est.  We've  known  them  all  our  lives ;  and  when  I  show 
them  this,  I  shall  have  no  trouble  in  getting  money 
to  float  it." 

"I  hope  you're  right,"  replied  the  Doctor,  "but 
country  bankers,  as  a  rule,  lack  business  imagination. 
You'll  be  more  likely  to  find  backers  in  Chicago,  New 
York  or  Boston.  I've  some  old  acquaintances — friends, 
perhaps,  I  might  call  them — in  Boston,  to  whom  I  can 
give  you  letters,  if  your  Dunkirk  bankers  are  shy.  I 
also  know  some  New  Yorkers  who  might  be  of  use  to 
you." 

"You're  the  right  kind !"  exclaimed  Harold.  "Not 
content  with  patting  me  on  the  back,  you're  eager  to 
help  me  to  my  kingdom.  I  won't  forget  you — oh,  no! 
— you  shall  be  one  of  the  directors  of  my  company.  I 
thought  of  you  in  that  capacity  the  other  dav,  before 
you  fell  in  love  with  my  model." 

"I  shall  be  only  too  glad  to  give  you  any  service, 
however  slight.  But  why  were  you  gone  so  long?  You 
must  have  spent  a  small  fortune  in  telephone  tolls !" 

"Oh,  no;  but  after  I  had  called  up  Dr.  Shively  and 


18  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

arranged  for  his  coming  tomorrow,  I  went  to  father's 
room.  I  couldn't  help  telling  him  how  you  had  been 
flattering  my  model.  He  was  greatly  pleased  by  that, 
but  he  pooh-poohed  my  sending  for  Shively ;  called  it 
woeful  extravagance,  a  frightful  waste  of  good  money 
which  might  have  been  used  in  working  out  another 
'epoch-making'  Fitzgerald  invention !" 

"Doesn't  your  father  appreciate  this  one?"  asked 
Phillips. 

"Oh,  yes !  Thoroughly !  But  he's  always  been 
rather  inclined  to  chaff  me  about  my  attempted  in 
ventions,  though  in  reality  I  know  he's  far  prouder 
of  them  than  of  his  own.  Doctor,  I  can't  take  any 
stock  in  your  gloomy  forebodings.  Father  looks 
brighter  to  me  every  day.  He  said  just  now  he  be 
lieved  he  could  sleep  tonight  in  bed,  instead  of  up  in 
his  chair.  He  walked  across  the  room  several  times 
and  said  he  felt  no  palpitations ;  and  he  offered  to  bet 
you  double  the  amount  of  your  next  bill," — here  Phil 
lips  waved  off  that  suggestion  with  a  graceful  hand — 
"that  Dr.  Shively  would  pronounce  him  well  along  on 
the  road  to  complete  recovery,  thanks  to  your  splen 
did  skill !" 

"He's  too  sanguine,  Harold.  I've  told  you  the  ab 
solute  truth.  Your  father's  life  hangs  on  a  thread. 
Should  he  continue  to  improve  for  six  months,  I  might 
believe  in  a  possible  permanent  restoration  to  normal 
ity  ;  but  I  beg  of  you,  for  your  own  sake,  not  to  be 
too  hopeful.  The  shock  will  be  all  the  less." 

"You're  a  prophet  of  evil,"  said  Harold  ruefully. 
"I  value  your  friendship ;  I  respect  your  sincerity ;  but 
I  will  not  believe  you  can  be  right,  at  least  not  till 
Dr.  Shively  has  pronounced  his  verdict.  If  he  gives 
encouragement,  won't  you  believe  as  I  do?" 

"I'll  try  to,  at  any  rate,"   answered  Phillips,   then 


CONCERNING  DR.  PHILLIPS  19 

very  suavely  added:  "I  don't  profess  infallibility  by 
any  means.  Also,  my  dear  boy,  let  me  say  that  I  can't 
help  admiring  your  temperament  almost  as  much  as 
your  talent.  In  your  case  a  peculiarly  fortunate  tem 
perament  has  resulted  from  the  blend  of  Irish  and 
Swede.  I  wish  I  might  have  had  the  honor  of  know 
ing  your  mother." 

Harold  made  no  instant  answer,  but  walked  to  the 
window.  Tears  of  mingled  sorrow  and  pleasure  had 
.,  sprung  into  his  blue-gray,  sea-gray,  eyes.  Born  of 
the  same  strain  in  an  earlier  era,  this  boy  might  have 
become  poet  or  musician.  This  being  the  superstrenu- 
ous  Twentieth  Century,  blind-drunk  with  materialistic 
achievements,  the  impulse  of  creative  energy  in  him  had 
been  directed  into  channels  of  invention.  Had  any 
one  hinted  that  he  would  learn  to  despise— or  better 
say,  to  rate  at  their  true  value — the  miracles  of  ma 
terialism  and  to  resent  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  he 
would  have  stared  at  such  a  hint  with  profound  as 
tonishment. 

Neither  Harold  nor  the  Doctor  was  now  in  any  mood 
to  prolong  the  conversation,  and  after  making  appoint 
ment  for  the  morrow  they  parted.  The  April  after 
noon,  playfully  brilliant,  was  waning  into  a  twilight 
with  suggestion  of  impending  shower  or  drizzle.  The 
soft  wind  had  turned  bleak,  and  Phillips,  as  he  strode 
home,  shivered  a  little  and  was  glad  of  his  overcoat.  He 
would  have  always  been  more  comfortable  in  the  thick 
hot  air  of  a  jungle.  Harold  returned  to  his  father's 
room  for  supper  and  a  game  of  cards,  till  the  invalid 
should  wish  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER    III 

Mistress  and  Wife 

WHEN  Sydney  Phillips  reached  the  door  of  his 
private  office  at  the  sanitarium,  his  mind  was 
made  up  as  to  his  course  of  action  in  several  direc 
tions,  thus :  "I  must  keep  in  daily  touch  with  Harold ; 
must  bring  him  to  lean  on  me  exclusively.  To  do  this, 
I  must  have  all  my  energies  undepleted  by  any  irrita 
tions.  I  must  break  with  Barbara.  Yes,  that  is  the 
first  step  to  fortune.  Agatha  will  soon  die,  and  I — I — 
shall  be  free!  If  Barbara  is  here  at  the  time  of  Aga 
tha's  death,  she  will,  of  course,  try  to  force  me  into 
marriage.  Curious  how  much  I  wanted  her  once  for  a 
wife,  instead  of  Agatha,  and  how  little  I  care  for  her 
now !  By  my  soul,  I  believe  I  could  end  in  hating  her !" 
He  entered.  From  the  reclining  chair  by  the  blazing 
open  fire  which  flung  a  vague,  shifting  light  through 
the  rather  low-studded  room,  arose  a  figure  that  slowly 
approached  him.  At  first,  from  its  droop  and  slow 
movement,  he  fancied  it  was  the  figure  of  his  principal 
morphine-patient,  his  wife.  But  as  he  perceived  it  more 
clearly,  he  cried: 

"Why,  it's  Barbara;  I  thought  'twas  Agatha!" 
"Yes,  Barbara  Avery,  your  sweetheart,  not  Agatha 
Phillips,  your  wife;  the  partner,  before  the  world,  of 
your  triumphs ;  though  I  have  been  your  best  help 
mate,  the  chief  builder  of  your  success,  and  the  savior 
of  your  reputation  as  a  surgeon  since  you  became  half 
blind !"  Her  voice  was  tense  and  stern. 

20 


MISTRESS  AND  WIFE  21 

"Barbara,  dearest,"  said  the  physician  in  a  tone  of 
extreme  lassitude,  as  he  repelled  her  advance,  "spare 
me  a  'scene'  tonight.  I  admit  all  you  say,  all  you 
have  done  for  me,  all  you  are  doing.  All  you  have 
been  to  me,  all  you  are!  But  I  am  tired  to  the  very 
marrow  tonight.  I  cannot  stand  reproaches.  Our 
situation  has  got  beyond  me.  I  seem  to  be  on  the 
brink  of  ruin,  exposure,  loss  of  social  standing,  loss 
of  business,  too,  soon  to  come;  and  all  because  that 
morphine-fiend  up-stairs  has  discovered  our  relation. 
»  She  knows,  Barbara,  that  since  I  lost  the  use  of  one 
eye,  you  have  been  performing  my  most  delicate  opera 
tions.  Why  did  you  ever  let  her  know  that  you,  who 
began  with  me  simply  as  a  nurse,  had,  after  you  left 
us,  received  your  diploma  as  a  practitioner  of  sur 
gery?  That  was  a  fatal  blunder.  Agatha  has  the 
whiphand  of  us  now,  and  she  is  revelling  in  her  sense 
of  ruinous  power,  as  only  a  woman  and  a  drug-fiend 
can." 

She  faced  him  mockingly.  "If  your  weary  marrow 
and  your  jarred  nerves,  O  mighty  specimen  of  man, 
cannot  stand  reproaches,  you  should  inflict  none !  Am 
I  to  blame  for  your  wife's  knowledge  of  my  shame  and 
my  skill?  If  my  memory  is  worth  a  pin,  it  was  you, 
not  I,  who  confided  to  Agatha,  before  I  returned  to 
your  employ  and  became  your  'chief  of  the  staff' — - 
precious  title ! — that  I  had  realized  my  girlhood  ambi 
tion  and  was  a  surgeon  of  skill  not  many  degrees  be 
low  your  own." 

"Yes,  yes,  you  are  right,"  said  Phillips  petulantly, 
"I  remember.  I  thought  that  this  might  serve  as  a 
good  professional  reason  for  our  constant  companion 
ship.  What  a  double-distilled  damned  fool  I've  been!" 

"You  seem  to  be  thinking  only  of  yourself.  Am  I 
not  included  in  your  double-distillation  of  damnation? 


22  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

You  speak  as  if  you  alone  were  on  the  edge  of  a  preci 
pice — the  precipice  close  to  which  you  and  I  have  been 
playing  so  long,  gathering  flowers  of  passion,  which  I 
was  once  blind  enough  to  believe  were  blossoms  of  true 
love  that  might  some  day  grow  into  fruits  of  calm 
and  permanent  happiness." 

"You  are  quite  poetical  tonight,  my  Barbara,"  he 
answered,  "and  you  are  more  beautiful  than  usual ;  but 
you're  not  reasonable.  Of  course,  you  are  included; 
but  you  can  get  away  before  the  crash  comes,  save 
yourself  and  make  a  new  start  in  some  place  where 
I  can  join  you,  after  Agatha  dies.  Perhaps  that's 
the  thing  for  you  to  do  right  now ;  turn  in  your  resig 
nation  in  proper  form,  and  request  an  endorsement  of 
your  work  and  your  remarkable  acquisitions — they  are 
such,  for  a  woman,  indeed,"  he  added  with  a  touch  of 
fairness  that  seemed  like  generosity.  "Your  knowl 
edge,  your  skill,  your  daring  in  using  the  knife,  would 
be  rather  remarkable  in  most  men  of  our  profession." 

Barbara,  smiling  but  coldly  at  this  tribute,  with  a 
look  so  intense  that  he  paused,  disconcerted,  made 
answer : 

"Go  on,  Sydney !  I  want  to  face  the  whole  truth. 
I  want  to  see  the  very  bottom  of  your  mind,  even  if 
it  is  nothing  but  black  mud  with  slimy  eels  wriggling 
through  it,  or  lying  in  wait  to  snap  out  at  a  bait." 

"Barbara,"  he  answered,  with  a  soft  chiding,  "I  was 
complimentary;  but  you  are  not.  I  assure  you,  I  was 
considering  your  position  in  the  world's  eye,  your 
safety,  more  than  my  own.  I  will  sell  out  this  busi 
ness  and  seek  you  again,  when  Agatha  dies." 

"Don't  harp  on  that,  Sydney,"  she  replied.  "You 
have  made  me  several  times  wish  that  poor  wreck  were 
dead.  But  that  is  past.  That  guilt,  except  in  im 
pulse  or  in  wish,  at  least,  is  not  upon  my  soul.  I  have 


MISTRESS  AND  WIFE  23 

reached  the  point  where  I  am  sorry  for  Agatha; 
though,  probably  because  I  have  caught  some  of  your 
nature,  I  am  far  more  sorry  for  myself." 

Sydney  stirred  uneasily  in  the  chair  into  which  he 
had  sunk  down.  Barbara  stood  there  with  the  firelight 
playing  on  half  her  face  and  leaving  the  rest  in  sinister 
shadow.  It  was  a  long,  oval,  noble,  almost  Madonna- 
like  face,  framed  sweepingly  over  the  brow  and  ears 
in  rather  austere  fashion  with  very  luxuriant  brown 
hair.  Her  eyes  were  violet ;  so  dark  as,  in  some  lights, 
to  seem  black. 

Her  neck  was  of  the  shapely,  stately  kind  which 
Solomon  once  likened  in  one  of  his  rhapsodies  to  a 
tower — a  tower  of  ivory. 

Her  figure,  in  correspondence  to  this  lovely  neck, 
was  ample,  luxuriant,  and  suggestive  of  the  dignity 
of  maternity.  The  harmonious  fulness  of  this  figure 
saved  her  from  seeming  over-tall. 

Sydney,  though  determined  to  drive  her  out  of  his 
life,  could  not  help  a  thrill  reminiscent  of  his  early 
infatuation,  as  he  looked  at  her  now.  It  was  a  keen 
satisfaction,  a  memory  any  voluptuary  might  gloat 
upon,  to  have  owned,  body  and  soul,  so  magnificent  a 
creature. 

This  thought  she  divined  apparently  from  his  eyes, 
for  she  resumed  speaking  with  less  aggressiveness. 

"Yes,  but  something  still  remains  in  reserve  which 
you  have  never  reached ;  which  does  not  belong  to  you 
to  keep  or  throw  away ;  which  never  will  belong  to  you. 
You  have  had  only  what  you  cultivated,  my  profes 
sional  skill,  and  the  worst,  not  the  best,  of  my  nature; 
a  clinging,  passionate  companionship  which  I  know 
you  have  become  cloyed  with,  and  are  planning  to 
escape  from  entirely." 

"Oh,  no,  no,  Barbara !     Believe  me " 


24  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

"Keep  still !  I  don't !  My  intuitions  have  not  been 
blunted,  but  sharpened,  recently.  You  were  expecting 
a  'scene'  when  you  entered,  to  be  followed  by  reconcilia 
tion  and  embraces,  like  so  many  'scenes'  in  the  past. 
You  were  mistaken.  While  waiting  for  you,  I  have  been 
reviewing  my  life  as  a  whole.  I  saw  a  girl  of  fif  ,een, 
overgrown,  without  good  home-surroundings,  yet  not 
disposed  to  viciousness,  enter  this  hospital  in  a  shabby 
dress,  with  only  her  bitter  need  to  recommend  her. 
You  were  just  starting  this  experiment;  you  needed 
help.  The  girl  was  willing  to  work  hard  and  long,  to 
serve  her  probation.  She  seemed  ambitious.  You  were 
ambitious,  too,  and  liked  that  trait." 

"That's  very  true;  but  why  this  history?  You 
are  too  young  yet  for  biography." 

"Let  me  go  on,"  she  murmured  in  deeper  tones.  He 
sank  back  resignedly  in  the  chair  from  which  he  had 
leaned  forward  with  a  deprecating  gesture,  so  graceful 
as  almost  to  seem  caressive.  "Presently  you  noticed 
that  the  shabby  girl  had  developed  into  a  woman  whose 
cheek  warmed  at  a  word  of  praise  from  you,  and  whose 
dormant  natural  passion  might  be  kindled  into  flame  by 
your  kisses.  Had  you  been  generous,  had  you  possessed 
a  soul,  you  would  have  spared  this  friendless  girl  you 
could  not  wed.  You  would  have  sent  her  away.  Yes, 
I  know  perfectly  what  you  would  say — that  some  one 
else  would  have  taken  me ;  that  I  was  ripe  and  ready 
to  be  plucked  by  any  persistent  or  experienced  man." 

Phillips  tried  to  shake  his  head  convincingly,  but 
the  effort  even  to  himself  seemed  a  failure. 

"You  became  infatuated  with  me  for  a  while ;  and 
I  with  you,"  she  went  on.  "I  had  no  standard  by 
which  to  measure  you,  and  you  seemed  a  superior  being. 
You  made  me  believe  at  first  that  our  guilty  passion 
would  reach  an  honorable  end ;  that  you  wished  to 


MISTRESS  AND  WIFE  25 

have  me  as  your  wife — and,  I  will  give  you  this  small 
credit,  I  believe  you  once  did  wish  it  so ;  but,  Sydney, 
I  have  grown  to  realize  that  it  could  not  be.  I  have 
learned  that  there  is  a  wifehood  and  a  husbandry  far 
beyond  your  conception,  a  kind  of  union  in  which  the 
natural  passions  become  sublimated,  with  ardor  inten 
sified  and  purified,  not  coarsened  and  commonized ;  in 
which  the  embrace  is  approached  reverentially  as  a 
holy  ceremony,  and  marriage  really  is,  what  one  re 
ligion  has  tried  by  ordinance  to  make  it — a  sacra 
ment." 

"Have  you  turned  Catholic?"  said  Sydney.  "By  my 
soul,  this  grows  interesting !" 

"No,  I  am  not  fit  to  be  religious,"  replied  Barbara, 
"but  I  realize  that  no  good,  no  permanent  beauty  in 
living,  no  spiritual  satisfaction,  no  abiding  high  hap 
piness,  can  possibly  result  from  the  continuation  of 
a  union  like  ours,  or  its  close  in  marriage.  Now,  after 
lying  in  your  arms,  I  do  not  respect  myself — I  hate, 
I  loathe  myself.  Before  this,  as  you  know,  I  have 
striven  to  break  away  from  you.  You  are  my  bad 
habit — like  a  drug  habit." 

He  laughed  softly,  and  as  he  laughed  there  came 
a  slight  stir  in  the  room  which  neither  noticed,  so  ab 
sorbed  were  they — she  in  the  message  that  she  had  to 
deliver,  the  need  to  speak  her  mind,  and  he  in  his  amuse 
ment  at  her  self-analysis. 

"I  am  not,"  continued  Barbara,  her  breast  undu 
lating,  but  her  voice  remaining  fairly  even,  "deserting 
you  because  of  your  troubles.  You  will  never  fail ; 
you  will  continue  to  make  money  in  other  ways,  or  you 
will  marry  it.  Your  type  of  man  always  does.  But  I 
am  going  to  break  my  bad  habit.  I  don't  love  you.  I 
never  did  love  you.  I  have  found  out  that  love  is  deeper 
than  passion.  I  do  not  love  you,  and  tomorrow  I 


26  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

am  going  to  leave  you  forever." 

"May  I  venture  to  inquire,"  asked  Sydney  in  gla 
cially  smooth  tones  that  well  concealed  a  stir  of  angry 
jealousy  he  had  never  expected  to  feel,  "who  has  helped 
you,  after  all  these  years  of  me,  to  this  wonderful, 
celestial  knowledge?  Not  that  it's  really  any  of  my 
business,  Barbara,  but  I'd  like  to  know  who  is  to  be  my 
— ahem — successor  in  office." 

"Be  careful  what  you  say,  Sydney  Phillips !"  she 
cried.  "I  owe  but  one  thing  to  you — the  encourage 
ment  you  gave  my  ambition  in  our  profession.  My  skill 
in  that,  or  in  nursing,  will  keep  me  out  of  the  gutter 
wherever  I  go.  But  you,  of  all  men,  have  the  least 
right  to  insult  me ;  nor  is  it  wise.  You  need  friends, 
not  enemies;  and  a  woman  insulted,  as  well  as  morally 
undermined,  may  prove  a  deadly  foe.  If  you  dare 
speak  again  like  that,  I  shall  end  by  hating  you !" 

"And  you  would  end  well!" 

Both  started  in  amazement,  and  turned ;  but  Phil 
lips  did  not  rise — yet. 

How  had  she  come  upon  them?  They  instinctively 
glanced  at  the  heavy  draperies  about  the  window.  No 
sign  of  stir  was  there.  Then  they  realized  that  Aga 
tha  must  have  been  hidden  in  the  medicine-closet,  all 
the  time.  She  came,  now,  a  little  nearer  into  the  light- 
play  of  the  fire.  Her  eyes,  black  as  her  husband's, 
were  blazing  wildly.  The  pallor  of  her  drawn  face  was 
ghostlier  than  that  of  any  corpse. 

"You  have  been  in  my  closet  for  morphine!"  cried 
Phillips.  "Don't  you  know  you  are  committing  sui 
cide,  you  fool?" 

Barbara  shuddered  at  his  brutality.  Agatha 
laughed  a  mocking  laughter  ghastlier  than  her  look. 

"It  saves  you  from  committing  murder,  you  .  .  . 
darling !" 


MISTRESS  AND  WIFE  27 

He  sprang  up  in  fury,  like  a  fer-de-lance  striking. 
Barbara  pushed  him  back  into  the  chair.  He  glared 
from  one  to  another  for  a  moment,  as  if  fain  to  kill 
both  at  one  blow ;  then  recollected  himself  and  re 
sumed  his  mask  of  calm. 

"Go  on !"  he  exclaimed.  "I  suppose,  tired  and  bored 
as  I  am,  I  must  endure  patiently  another  damnable 
declamation.  Go  on,  and  have  done  with  it !" 

"I've — nothing — more —  began  Agatha.  She 

tottered,  with  violently  upturned,  staring  eyes ;  fell 
forward;  was  caught  in  the  strong  arms  of  Barbara 
and  borne  out  of  the  room;  the  mistress  actually  hold 
ing  up  the  wife  like  a  little  child  in  one  folded  arm, 
while  she  opened  the  door. 

"By  my  soul !"  Sydney  casually  commented,  as  he 
noted  this  feat,  "what  a  strong  she-devil  you  are !"  He 
rose,  went  to  the  closet,  poured  out  a  tumbler  of  Ma 
deira  from  a  decanter  there ;  drank  it  with  gusto  and  re 
turned  to  the  fire  to  warm  himself  still  more.  It  was 
a  poor  makeshift  for  the  jungle,  but  it  had  to  do  just 
then. 

Barbara  carried  Agatha  up  to  her  chamber,  applied 
restoratives  and  worked  over  her,  weeping  all  the  while, 
till  the  frail  wisp  of  what  had  once  been  a  beautiful 
woman  regained  consciousness  and  lay  in  a  state  of 
dreamy  calm. 

"You  are  going  away  for  good,  Barbara,"  said  the 
wife  at  last.  "I  am  glad  of  it  for  your  sake  and  for 
my  own,  too.  I  have  always  been  jealous  of  you,  al 
though  long  ago  I  ceased  to  care  for  him ;  if,  indeed,  I 
ever  cared  in  the  truest  sense.  It  is  very  strange.  It 
is  a  mystery.  I  shall  know  its  meaning  soon,  perhaps, 
for  I  am  going  to  die.  I  cannot  break  my  habit,  as 
you  have  done.  I  shall  die — and  it  cannot  be  too  soon. 
Good-bye,  Barbara !  Go  tonight,  if  you  can — go  to- 


28  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

night !  I  need  nothing  more  now,  except" — she 
stretched  her  wasted  arms — "Kiss  me  once ;  kiss  me !" 

Barbara  Averj,  sobbing  violently  now,  met  Agatha's 
embrace  and  kissed  her  forehead. 

"You  will  be  a  good  woman,  Barbara,"  the  pros 
trate  woman  whispered,  "for  you  will  never  see  him 
again— and  some  day  you  will  more  than  forgive  him ; 
you  will  utterly  forget  him.  For  he  isn't  real,  Bar 
bara;  he's  only  a  hideous  dream — a  hideous,  mor 
phine  dream." 

"Don't  talk  any  more,"  sobbed  Barbara.  "Don't 
excite  yourself.  He  may  grow  better ;  may  turn  kind 
to  you." 

The  dying  woman  shook  her  head  faintly. 

"It   would   be— too    late!" 

Barbara  kissed  her  once  more  and  fled  from  the 
room.  Once  in  her  own,  she  packed  with  feverish 
haste  a  suit-case, — every  jewel  he  had  given  her  she 
had  stripped  off  in  the  afternoon  and  thrown  on  the 
dresser — seized  her  old  kit  of  professional  tools,  and 
with  all  she  had  left  of  her  former  savings — barely 
a  hundred  dollars — left  the  hospital  without  saying 
good-bye  to  any  one. 

To  get  as  far  away  as  possible,  she  bought  a  ticket 
for  Boston.  Surely,  he  would  never  come  there ;  and 
if  he  did,  what  matter?  She  would  be  a  new  woman 
by  that  time,  and  able  to  meet  him,  if  chance  decreed 
it  so,  without  a  thrill,  even  of  discomfort;  perhaps 
even  without  even  so  much  as  a  gleam  of  recognition 
in  her  eye.  We  believe  such  things  of  ourselves  some 
times,  when  we  burn  our  ships  behind  us ;  when  we 
resolutely  sever  our  lives  from  lives  with  which  they 
have  been  evilly  entangled. 

Agatha  Phillips  died  that  night. 


CHAPTER    IV 

The  Great  Heart-Specialist 

HHHE  heart-specialist  recommended  by  Phillips 
A  came  from  Chicago ;  examined ;  asked  myriad  mi 
nute  questions  as  to  Kenwyn  Fitzgerald's  habits  of  life, 
the  occupations  his  forebears  had  pursued,  and  the  ail 
ments  they  had  supposedly  died  from;  made  him  walk 
briskly,  also  backward,  lie  down,  and  do  many  sim 
ple  feats;  tested  him  before  and  after  these;  and  jotted 
memoranda  on  about  a  score  of  small  strips  of  paper 
torn  from  a  pocket-pad.  These  hieroglyphs  he  com 
pared  and  pored  over  for  a  while,  as  if  working  out  a 
complicated  mathematical  problem. 

Harold  kept  a  respectful  silence  during  this  pro 
fessional  performance,  though  it  seemed  an  excruciat 
ingly  slow  process.  By  the  time  the  specialist  had 
folded  up  his  notes  and  pocketed  them,  he  had  suc 
ceeded  in  impressing  father  and  son  as  the  most  thor 
ough  person  they  had  ever  met. 

Then,  as  the  physician  looked  up  from  the  table, 
Harold  somewhat  bashfully  and  tremulously  tried  to 
express  appreciation  of  such  care.  The  great  man 
smiled,  with  an  assumption  of  frankness  that  somehow 
ill-fitted  his  rather  vulpine  face. 

"I  always  try  to  balance  the  magnitude  of  my  fee 
by  the  sum  of  the  minutiae  of  my  investigations  and 
operations,"  said  he.  "Otherwise  I  might  not  feel  I 
had  earned  it — even  when  taking  money  from  the  well- 
to-do.  Well,  now,  you  want  my  verdict,  I  suppose?" 

29 


30  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

Both  bowed  in  silence,  the  patient  with  a  sort  of 
valiant  smile  perceptibly  simulating  hope. 

"Yours  is  a  tired  heart,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  said  the 
physician,  "a  heart  impaired  more  by  the  wear  and 
tear  of  emotions  than  by  the  strain  of  overwork." 

Kenwyn  Fitzgerald  inclined  his  head  slightly,  and 
a  look  of  rather  mournful  reminiscence  stole  over  his 
face. 

"But  I  cannot  pronounce  your  trouble  organic," 
continued  the  specialist.  "Of  course,  I  have  not  seen 
you  in  one  of  your  acute  attacks ;  but  you  may  never 
have  another.  Your  case  has  been  admirably  handled 
by  my  professional  brother.  I  am  sorry  he  is  not  here, 
in  person,  that  I  might  compliment  him.  He's  out 
of  town,  I  take  it?" 

"No,"  answered  Harold,  "but  his  wife  has  recently 
died.  He's  much  affected  by  the  shock,  and  begs 
to  be  excused  from  any  consultation,  just  yet." 

"Ah  yes,  quite  so,  quite  so,"  exclaimed  Shively,  dart 
ing  a  subtle  glance  at  the  young  man — a  glance  that 
for  all  its  directness  seemed  oblique.  "I  regret  his 
absence.  But  no  matter.  It  doesn't  signify.  I  under 
stood  you  to  tell  me  over  the  wire,  yesterday,  that  he 
took  rather  an  unoptimistic  view  of  your  father's  case. 
I'm  glad  to  say  I  believe  him  mistaken.  I  can  see  no 
reason  why,  with  care,  your  father  shouldn't  live  for 
years.  Of  course,  I  guarantee  nothing.  In  a  case  of 
this  sort,  the  unexpected  must  always  be  expected 
— to  use  an  Irish  bull — but  the  prognosis  is  distinctly 
favorable." 

Harold's  face  brightened  into  a  smile,  as  he  ex 
claimed  :  "Oh,  yes,  I  felt  it  must  be  so !"  with  such  a 
note  of  rapture  that  Dr.  Shively  smiled  that  vulpine 
smile  again,  as  he  proceeded: 

"Of  course,  your  father's  present  age  is  always  more 


THE  GREAT  HEART-SPECIALIST         31 

or  less  a  critical  period.  But  there  have  been  plenty 
of  cases  of  men  with  weak  hearts  at  fifty  or  fifty-five, 
who,  by  simply  taking  care  of  themselves,  have  rounded 
the  Cape  of  David- — the  Psalmist — in  fine  shape  and 
fettle.  Some  noted  cases  have  even  reached  extreme 
old  age." 

"You  shall  be  a  noted  case,  father — a  celebrated 
case,  dear  dad — for  you  shall  become  a  youth  again, 
watching  the  triumphal  progress  of  my  chariot,  my  in 
vention  on  its  march  to  millions !"  cried  Harold. 

The  father  laughed  at  this  exuberance,  and  Dr. 
Shively  said  with  assumed  severity : 

"Come,  come,  irreverent  youngster,  you  are  rudely 
interrupting  the  Oracle." 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  can  hardly  contain  myself. 
Please  go  on !  It  is  glorious  to  hear  you  speak !" 

"The  annals  of  longevity,  philosophically  pondered, 
rather  induce  to  a  belief  that  many  persons  die  chiefly 
because  they,  not  their  organs,  have  become  tired  of 
life.  Living,  apparently,  with  some  persons  gets  to 
be  a  habit  they  persist  in,  unless  broken  of  it  by  sud 
den  shock  or  accident,  until  they  desiccate,  dry  up, 
or  die  what  is  termed  a  natural  death." 

"All  deaths  ought  to  be  natural,  oughtn't  they?  like 
all  lives?"  asked  Harold. 

"Surely !  I  knew  one  case  where  a  man  lived  to  be 
ninety-eight,  in  perfect  health.  He  was  overhauled 
once,  when  ninety-four,  while  rowing  a  dory  lustily  in 
Boston  harbor  to  an  island  he  owned  there,  the  Outer 
Brewster,  by  some  fishermen  who  knew  him  and  thought 
he  ought  not  at  that  age  to  be  rowing  over  rough 
waves  all  alone.  But  he  was  highly  indignant  at  the 
notion  that  he,  Nat  Austin,  High  Sheriff  of  Middlesex 
County  for  many  years,  needed  any  aid.  When  finall}7 
he  slipped  into  the  last  sleep  one  summer  afternoon 


32  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

in  his  easy  chair,  neighboring  physicians  were  so  curi 
ous,  they  got  permission  of  his  kinsfolk  to  hold  an 
autopsy.  They  found  every  organ  in  perfect  condi 
tion.  There  was  no  apparent  reason  for  his  end.  It 
was  just  like  a  thoroughly  ripe  pippin  dropping  from 
the  Tree  of  Life — that  was  all." 

"Father,"  cried  Harold  beamingly,  "you  shall  be 
more  than  a  celebrated  case — you  shall  be  a  pippin ! 
You  have  always  been  one,  anyway,  you  know,  which 
everybody  wanted  to  pluck !" 

Smiling  now  less  wistfully  at  Harold's  bit  of  raillery, 
Kenwyn  Fitzgerald  remarked  with  all  his  Irish  genial 
ity  showing  clear: 

"You,  certainly,  Dr.  Shively,  have  the  knack  of 
making  your  professional  calls  intellectually  interest 
ing.  I  confess  I  had  expected  to  be  tired,  or  perhaps, 
you  will  forgive  my  saying  so,  terribly  bored  by  your 
visit.  Instead,  I  have  been  greatly  entertained." 

Dr.  Shively  glanced  at  his  watch. 

"Sorry  I  can't  stay  a  while  and  chat  with  you,"  said 
he,  "but  really,  if  I'm  to  catch  my  train — 

"I  can  easily  take  you  to  the  station  in  our  auto," 
said  Harold,  "in  about  seven  minutes.  Perhaps,  now 
that  you've  convinced  father  what  he  chiefly  needs  is 
care,  you  might  like  to  look  into  my  workshop,  and 
see  the  model  of  a  little  invention  which  father  and 
myself  believe  means  millions.  And  so  does  Dr.  Phil 
lips." 

The  boy's  tone,  Dr.  Shively  noticed,  was  not  boast 
ful  at  all,  but  one  of  quiet  conviction.  He  was  just 
on  the  point  of  rising  from  his  chair,  when  the  men 
tion  of  Dr.  Phillips  evidently  brought  again  to  the  sur 
face  of  his  mind  some  former  thought ;  for  he  picked 
up  one  of  the  medicine  bottles,  removed  the  cork,  held 
it  a  moment  under  his  nostrils  in  a  meditative  and 


THE  GREAT  HEART-SPECIALIST         33 

far-minded  sort  of  way,  then  rose,  remarking  rather 
disconnectedly : 

"Certainly  I  shall  be  charmed  to  see  your  model ! 
Dr.  Phillips  must  possess  uncommon  knowledge  of 
curious,  rare  drugs  and  their  action  in  combination. 
Do  I  take  leave  of  you  here,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  or  shall  it 
be  in  the  workshop?" 

Kenwyn  stretched  his  hand. 

"I'll  say  good-bye  and  thank  you  here,  I  think.  I'm 
.  beginning  to  be  a  bit  drowsy." 

"Fine  tribute  to  my  powers  as  a  practitioner  of  medi 
cal  magic !"  replied  Shively,  taking  his  patient's  hand. 
"Rest  often,  continue  your  present  medicine  till  Dr. 
Phillips  thinks  you  may  diminish  the  dosage,  and  ulti 
mately  cut  it  off.  According  to  my  judgment,  you  are 
in  first-rate  hands ;  in  remarkable  hands,  I  might  say." 

Harold  led  the  way  to  the  workshop  and  started 
to  explain  his  invention. 

"Pray  don't !"  intercepted  Shively.  "Let  me  study 
it  out  myself.  I  know  something  about  machinery ; 
and  it's  one  of  my  vanities  to  discover  solutions  to 
problems,  if  I  can,  without  help.  I  will  ask  questions 
readily  enough,  when  they  are  necessary  for  my  en 
lightenment." 

He  surprised  Harold  not  only  by  making  no  queries, 
but  no  comments.  He  simply  pored  over  the  model 
about  ten  minutes  and  then  abruptly  consulted  his 
watch  again. 

"I  think  we'd  better  start  now,"  said  he.  "I  always 
like  to  be  at  a  station  a  few  moments  before  a  train 
starts." 

On  their  way,  Dr.  Shively's  brooding  silence  had 
such  an  edge  of  actual  taciturnity  that  Harold  was 
too  sensitively  polite  to  disturb  it  by  a  word ;  and 
Harold,  too,  was  tempted  into  more  profundity  of  re- 


34  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

flection  than  his  natural  wont. 

Presently,  as  they  stood  by  the  motor  at  the  sta 
tion  platform,  he  remembered  he  had  not  yet  handed 
the  physician  his  fee.  Blushing  at  the  thought  that  he 
might  have  entirely  forgotten  so  to  do,  he  pulled  a 
thousand  dollar  cheque  from  his  breast-pocket  and 
presented  it. 

"This  is  little  enough  for  the  great  comfort  you 
have  given  me,  Dr.  Shively.  God  bless  you  all  your 
days !" 

Dr.  Shivcly's  eyes  glinted  greedily,  despite  himself, 
as  he  crumpled  up  the  bit  of  paper  and  tucked  it  away. 

"My  dear  young  man,  I  never  hesitate  in  taking  fees 
from  those  who  have.  In  your  case  I  can  feel  no  shade 
of  hesitance.  I  know  you  will  write  many  larger 
cheques  than  this ;  for  I  see  clearly  that  Dr.  Phillips 
is  right  also  in  his  prognosis  of  your  model.  I  agree 
with  him  and  you.  Certainly  you  ought  to  make  mil 
lions  out  of  it.  I  have  only  been  wondering  just  ex 
actly  what  you  will  do  with  them.  But  I  believe  you 
will  do  good.  Good-bye  !" 

Alertly  he  stepped  onto  the  stairs  of  the  car,  waved 
his  hand  and  vanished  within. 

Harold  stood  there  thinking,  till  the  engine-bell 
aroused  him.  Then  he  glimpsed  Shively's  narrow- 
eyed  face  at  a  window,  and  gave  him  a  parting  salute. 
What  a  day  of  unspeakable  happiness,  thought  he. 

Ah!  Youth!  Youth — Genius  and  Faith! 


CHAPTER    V 

The  Laying  of  the  Snare 

SO  you  arc  going  to  leave  us,  to  desert  us?"  Harold 
said  with  rueful  surprise,  almost  alarm,  for  he 
had  already  fallen  under  the  spell  of  Dr.  Phillips  and 
grown  to  regard  him  as  one  of  his  choicest  friends — 
his  confidential  adviser.  "Why  must  you?  Why  have 
you  sold  your  sanitarium,  in  which  you  were  doing 
so  much  good  to  everybody?  I  cannot  understand  it." 

"The  place  has  been  unbearable  ever  since  my  wife 
died,  though  I  knew  for  months  that  she  must.  But, 
Harold,  there  are  other  reasons.  I  will  confide  to  you 
a  painful  secret."  And  Dr.  Phillips  looked  a  moment 
at  the  younger  man,  as  they  sat  together  in  the  com 
fortable  living-room  of  the  Fitzgerald  home. 

"Don't  speak  of  it,  if  it  will  pain  you !"  exclaimed 
Harold. 

"No,  it  will  ease  me  to  tell  you.  Surgery  was  the 
ambition  of  my  life.  I  attained  eminence  in  it,  but 
for  the  last  year  I  have  been  holding  my  reputation 
only  by  a  strategy  that  has  grated  on  my  self-respect. 
You  may  have  heard  that  my  eyesight,  impaired  by 
an  accident,  has  been  restored.  But  it  hasn't.  The 
vision  of  my  right  eye  is  most  uncertain.  I  am  threat 
ened  with  total  blindness  of  both- — if  I  persist." 

"Oh!  how  sorry  I  am — and  just  to  think  what  a 
double  burden  you  have  been  bearing  so  calmly,  mak 
ing  no  sign  even  to  your  friends !" 

"I  have  few  beyond  you.  Listen.  All  this  year  I 

35 


36  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

have  had  to  depend  on  a  woman  I  educated,  to  perform 
most  of  my  delicate  operations ;  indeed,  almost  all  of 
any  kind.  The  day  before  my  wife  died,  my  helper, 
the  woman  I  had  transformed  from  a  mere  hospital 
nurse  into  an  accomplished  surgical  operator,  left  me, 
deserted  me.  Such  is  the  gratitude  one  must  expect!" 

So  bitterly  sarcastic  was  the  tone,  it  would  have 
imposed  on  any  one  as  an  outburst  of  sincerity.  Har 
old  looked  shocked. 

"How  base  of  her  !  How  contemptible !  But  every 
body  isn't  ungrateful !" 

"No.  I'll  qualify  my  cynical  remark.  I  will  be  just, 
at  any  rate.  There  is  gratitude  at  times,  in  this  world ; 
but  it's  a  man's  virtue.  Never  expect  it  of  a  woman 
— and  beware  of  the  sex,  Harold !  Don't  tangle  up 
your  life  with  women,  whatever  else  you  do." 

"That's  very  curious !"  answered  Harold.  "Father 
once  gave  me  somewhat  similar  advice.  I  don't  un 
derstand  it.  Why  should  they  be  dangerous?  Why 
should  a  man  beware  of  them?" 

"Of  course,  there  have  to  be  exceptions.  Your 
mother,  for  instance,  and  mine,  no  doubt,  though  I 
don't  remember  her  distinctly.  But  there's  a  reason 
back  of  it  all.  Woman's  chastity,  which  Balzac  has 
called  man's  greatest  invention,  has  overshadowed  and 
stunted  other  virtues.  Indeed,  to  such  an  extent  has 
chastity  dominated,  that  the  woman  who  is  even  sus 
pected  of  a  lapse  from  it,  in  most  cases  finds  herself 
a  social  outcast." 

"Yes,  that's  infamously  unjust.  I've  always  thought, 
since  I  was  able  to  think  independently,  there  should 
be  but  one  standard  of  morals  for  both  women  and 
men,"  answered  Harold. 

"I  wasn't  contemplating  just  now  the  moral  issue 
—though,  of  course,  you're  right  on  that  score — I  was 


THE  LAYING  OF  THE  SNARE  37 

merely,  as  a  man  of  scientific  and  philosophic  bent,  ex 
plaining  the  absence  of  gratitude  in  woman's  nature  by 
the  excluding  predominance  of  a  negative,  passive  vir 
tue,  imposed  by  man  upon  woman  originally  as  an  ideal 
attribute  to  be  attained  and  held,  over  positive  or  ac 
tive  virtues.  But  to  return  to  my  own  affairs.  With 
my  life-long  ambition  clearly  doomed  to  defeat,  and 
the  place  where  I  have  labored  so  long  become  unbear 
able  through  associations,  I  thought  it  best  for  me  to 
sell  out  to  a  man  who  has  been  organizing  a  rival  es 
tablishment.  He  would  have  driven  me  out,  in  the 
end.  Now  I  have  retired  with  credit  unimpaired  and 
enough  money  for  several  years  of  travel  in  a  modest 
way.  You  see  the  common-sense  of  my  course,  don't 
you?" 

"I  do,  but  I'm  sorrier  than  I  can  tell  you,  Dr.  Phil 
lips,  and  selfishly  so,  too,"  answered  the  younger  man, 
"for  I  had  begun  to  count  upon  you  as  one  of  my  best 
advisers  now,  and  one  of  the  most  active  directors  of 
my  corporation  in  the  near  future.  I  ask  again — 
why  must  you  leave  us?  You  have  done  father  so 
much  good !  I  owe  you  such  a  debt  of  gratitude  that 
I  can't,  I  positively  can't,  lose  you  suddenly  out  of 
my  life ! 

"Stay  with  us,  Dr.  Phillips.  Rich  men  have  their 
private  physicians,  and  why  shouldn't  we,  since  father 
and  I  are  bound  to  be  more  than  rich?  You  can 
name  a  salary.  You  shall  have  a  special  den,  too,"  he 
added  ingenuously,  "for  your  own  inventions,  for  mak 
ing  all  sorts  of  experiments  in  chemistry  of  which  I 
know  you  must  be  fond,  if  you'll  promise  not  to  have 
more  than  one  explosion  a  month,  on  your  honor,  Dr. 
Phillips !" 

Gazing  on  that  trustful  face,  hearkening  to  that 
charming  voice,  more  caressive  at  times  than  any 


38  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

woman's,  realizing — for  such  a  brain  as  that  of  Phil 
lips  must  have  realized  even  while  it  contemned — the 
beauty  of  that  character,  how  could  he  have  continued 
to  harbor  any  designs  of  darkness?  Phillips  replied 
in  even  tones  and  with  a  smile  of  subtle  cordiality: 

"You  are  grievously  tempting  me,  Harold,  to  aban 
don  my  purpose.  If  I  thought  you  really  did  need  me, 
I  shouldn't  need  extra  temptation.  Your  suggestion 
of  a  special  den  is  very  alluring.  By  the  bye,  how 
did  you  guess  I  had  a  weakness  for  dabbling  in  chem 
istry?  I  don't  remember  ever  giving  a  hint  of  it." 

"Oh !  'twasn't  much  of  a  guess.  Dr.  Shively,  after 
he'd  nosed  and  tasted  the  medicines  you  have  been 
giving  father,  said  something  about  your  evidently  pos 
sessing  uncommon  knowledge  of  curious,  rare  drugs, 
and  their  effects  in  combination.  Hence  I  inferred 
you  must  be  an  inventor,  like  myself,  fond  of  experi 
menting  in  your  line ;  and  rare  drugs  cost  heaps  of 
money,  I  also  infer." 

"True ;  they  do,  when  very  rare." 

"Since  you  have  been  cruelly  cut  off  by  fate  from 
pursuing  your  first  path  of  ambition,  why  not  de 
vote  your  time  to  experiments  in  medical  magic?" 
asked  Harold,  eagerly.  "You  might  discover  or  in 
vent  something  far  more  beneficial  to  mankind  than 
my  best  successes  in  mechanical  forces." 

Phillips  regarded  him  intently  with  a  curiosity  that 
bordered  on  astonishment. 

"You're  a  generous  fellow!"  he  exclaimed,  at  length. 
"You  shall  have  your  way.  I  will  stay.  Never  mind 
about  any  salary.  If  I  need  to  buy  any  costly  drugs, 
I'll  borrow  from  you.  And  now,  my  dear  Harold,  al 
though  I'm  so  much  your  elder,  it  seems  to  me  we  have 
known  each  other  long  enough,  and  have  become  close 
enough  to  drop  any  formality  between  us.  Why  not 


THE  LAYING  OF  THE  SNARE  39 

hereafter  call  me  Sydney,  as  I  have  been  calling  you 
Harold  for  quite  a  while?" 

"Sydney?"  cried  the  boy.  "I  have  long  wished  you 
would  suggest  this.  I  was  a  bit  shy  of  showing  any 
forwardness,  even  in  friendship,  or  I'd  have  done  so 
without  your  suggestion !" 

He  put  out  his  hand.    Never  was  hand  extended  with 

more  of  heart  in  it.     Phillips  took  it  in  both  his  own, 

feeling  he  had  just  achieved  a  master-stroke.     He  had 

..  been  adopted  into  the  family  without  apparent  seeking. 

"Now  I  can  carry  out  my  plans  for  the  siege  of 
Dunkirk,"  said  Harold,  "you  will  be  here  in  charge 
of  the  household.  Father  shrinks  from  going  back 
there  even  for  a  short  visit ;  says  the  place  is  'too  popu 
lous  with  ghosts  of  memory.'  ' 

"But  are  you  quite  ready?"  asked  Phillips,  solicit 
ously.  "Have  you  perfected  the  last  improvements  on 
your  model?" 

"I  don't  intend  to  bother  any  more  about  that,  just 
at  present.  The  patented  invention,  as  it  stands,  is 
enough  to  start  the  corporation  on.  Those  Dunkirk 
bankers  will  see  that.  Don't  shake  your  head,  Syd 
ney.  You  were  mistaken  about  father's  heart.  I  take 
that  mistake  as  an  omen  you'll  be  equally  wrong  as 
to  those  bankers'  heads." 

"Possibly  you're   right." 

"Oh!  more  than  possibly!  They  won't  be  'thick,' 
Sydney,  which  is  choice  Pennsylvania  Dutch  for  stupid. 
Meanwhile  you'll  take  my  place  with  father.  How 
everything  seems  to  work  out  for  the  best!" 

"Things  do  seem  to  adjust  themselves;  at  least  some 
times  they  do,  if  one  is  patient,"  assented  the  doctor. 

"I'll  go  tell  father,  now  that  I've  persuaded  you  to 
live  with  us ;  and  you  must  go  this  minute  and  have 
your  personal  belongings  moved  over.  You  shall  have 


40  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

the  west  wing  of  the  house.  Can  you  bring  over 
everything  in  your  auto?  If  not,  I'll  send  the  gardener 
with  ours.  Let's  do  everything  at  once  with  a  grand 
rush  of  decision,  Sydney !" 

"You're  a  live  wire  and  a  lightning-striker,  you 
are !"  replied  Phillips  with  a  short  laugh.  "And  let 
me  tell  you,  Harold,  you're  the  only  person  in  this 
world  who  ever  turned  me  from  a  purpose.  I  hope 
those  Dunkirk  capitalists  will  be  half  as  waxen  in  your 
hands.  But  they  have  known  you  from  boyhood,  and 
so  they  must  have  implicit  confidence  in  you ;  and  surest 
of  all,  they  ought,  if  not  hopelessly  rutted  by  their 
own  specialty  in  business,  to  see  at  a  glance  the  im 
mense  potential  value  of  your  invention.  You'll  take 
the  model  along,  of  course?" 

"Not  this  one.     I  have  made  a  duplicate." 

"Capital  notion !"  commented  Phillips  whose  gaze 
was  fastened  now  on  the  small,  smooth-shining  bit  of 
mechanism,  as  though  fascinated — obsessed. 

"This  first  one  I  shall  leave  for  father  and  you  to  ad 
mire  at  times,  in  my  absence." 

Harold's  laugh  rang  through  the  open  window  like  a 
challenge  to  the  Spring  birds. 

One  on  a  low,  flowering  bush  near  by,  took  it  so ; 
broke  into  a  warble  prelusive  of  Mayday ;  stopped 
short  in  the  midst  of  his  tuneful  ecstasy — trembling 
violently — as  a  sleek,  black  snake  writhed  up  from  the 
roots  of  the  bush ;  then  uttered  a  shrill  shriek  and, 
wrenching  itself  away  from  the  ugly  apparition,  flung 
itself  on  the  bosom  of  the  air. 

The  snake,  undisconcerted  by  the  escape  of  one 
small  bird,  wriggled  up  into  the  blossomy  bush.  Even 
though  one  prey  may  elude  the  cunning  and  the  strong, 
others  a-plenty  can  be  found.  Darwin  phrased  it  as 
"The  survival  of  the  fittest."  The  vulgar  proverb  is 
much  more  apt:  "A  victim  is  born  every  minute!" 


CHAPTER    VI 

A  Father's  Prescience 

KENWYN  FITZGERALD,  to  Harold's  amaze 
ment,  did  not  receive  the  good  tidings  enthusi 
astically. 

He  was  reclining  in  a  morris-chair,  regarding  the 
declining  of  the  last  day  of  April  with  a  wistful,  far 
away  expression. 

At  Harold's  entrance  he  started  slightly,  the  far 
away  look  still  upon  his  face. 

"Where  has  your  mind  been  gathering  wool,  dear 
dad?" 

"I  was  back  in  Dunkirk,  living  over  again  the  early 
days  with  your  mother,  Hildegarde,  and  wondering 
how  she  bore  with  me  and  my  futile  inventive  faculty 
so  easily.  But  my  success,  after  a  thousand  heart 
aches  of  failure,  is  coming  at  last  through  you,  my 
son.  What  a  pity  your  mother  could  not  have  lived 
to  see  it !" 

"She  did  see  it,  after  a  fashion,  for  she  told  me 
solemnly  she  believed  I  would  work  this  thing  out,  and 
prophesied  I  would  do  still  better  things.  I  mean  to 
try  my  best  to  fulfill  her  prophecy.  I'm  going  to  Dun 
kirk  to-morrow.  Sydney,  who  has  given  up — sold  out 
his  business — has  just  consented,  after  much  urgence, 
to  cast  in  his  lot  with  us  for  a  while  and  be  your 
guardian  angel,  while  I'm  away." 

"Sydney?     Who's  he?" 

"Dr.  Phillips — I  call  him  by  his  first  name  now." 

41 


42  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

"Harold,  I  don't  exactly  trust  Dr.  Phillips." 

"What? — Why,  father! — what  can  you  mean?  You 
of  all  men  to  distrust  a  fellow-man !  It's  unnatural ! 
And  especially  Dr.  Phillips  who  has  done  so  much  for 
you — 'By  my  soul,'  to  steal  an  oath  from  Sydney, 
you  bewilder  me.  What  will  you  say  next?  Give  me 
a  reason  for  your  strange  distrust !" 

The  father's  brows  knit.  What  reason  could  he 
give,  after  all?  He  looked  his  perplexity. 

"I  don't  know  just  how  to  express  it,  Harold,"  he 
answered,  "but  somehow — since  the  day  you  told  me  of 
his  inquiry  whether  you  had  a  patent,  I  haven't  been 
quite  at  ease  in  my  mind.  Somehow — somehow,  I  don't 
just  trust  him." 

"But,  father,  that  was  the  most  natural  inquiry  in 
the  world  for  any  one  who  took  any  sort  of  practical 
friendly  interest  in  me  and  my  work !" 

"Perfectly  true — and  yet — and  yet !" 

Kenwyn  Fitzgerald  gazed  again  on  the  spring  love 
liness  glowing  outside,  and  his  heart  misgave  him.  Why 
should  he  put  a  corrosive  distrust  into  the  virginal 
heart  of  his  son ;  a  distrust  that  had  no  foundation  in 
reason;  a  vague  and  formless  phantasy? 

But  Harold  had  demanded  a  reply,  and  as  Kenwyn 
turned  from  contemplating  the  beauty  of  the  dying 
spring-day,  he  noted  a  straightforward  look  on  his 
son's  face  that  enforced  some  sort  of  answer.  With 
a  sudden  burst  of  bitterness  that  astonished  Harold 
still  more,  he  continued: 

"It  would  have  been  far  better  for  us  all,  had  I  been 
less  trustful  of  my  fellowmen.  You  ought  to  know 
that.  Your  mother  did,  to  her  cost  and  her  sorrow. 
This  world  isn't  a  garden  of  dreams,  my  boy — it's  a 
battlefield.  I  can't  bear  the  shadow  of  a  thought  that 
the  fruits  of  your  labor — your  genius — should  be 


A  FATHER'S  PRESCIENCE  43 

stolen  from  you,  and  you  retain  but  the  husks.  This  is 
a  commercial,  a  financial  age,  my  son ;  a  cruel,  a  piti 
less  era.  It  needs  a  denunciative  Dante  to  depict  with 
appalling  accuracy  the  Inferno  of  its  world-wide  tragi 
comedy,  or  a  Shakespere  or  a  Shelley  to  preach  in 
words  of  heavenly  flame  a  new  gospel  to  the  sons  and 
the  daughters  of  man.  The  churches  are  not  doing 
it.  The  universities  are  just  as  bad.  They  look  to 
the  rich  for  their  maintenance.  The  parsons'  wives 
or  the  priests'  housekeepers  must  be  in  fashion.  The 
professors'  families,  the  same.  Whosoever  doubts  our 
civilization  is  damned ;  whosoever  flouts  it  is  pariah  or 
anathema." 

"Why,  father,  I  never  saw  you  in  such  a  mood !" 

"These  are  not  new  thoughts  with  me.  I  was  born 
in  a  mining  town.  I  saw  sights,  as  a  boy,  that  curdled 
my  blood.  You  can  see  them  still,  even  at  Dunkirk,  if 
you  look  close  enough.  I  ran  away  to  enlist  in  the 
war,  the  Civil  War.  I  saw  frightful  things  on  the  bat 
tlefield,  but  not  half  so  frightful  as  the  industrial  battle 
— the  fight  for  daily  bread  that  rages  round  us.  I  came 
off  with  honor,  thank  God,  as  most  Irishmen  did.  We 
are  all  right  as  a  race,  in  some  kinds  of  strife.  We 
have  fought  everybody's  battles,  but  our  own.  In  the 
bloody  work  of  War  I  was  a  success,  God  save  the 
mark !  I  rose  to  be  a  lieutenant ;  but  in  what  should 
be  the  nobler  works  of  Peace  I  have  been  a  failure." 

"Oh !  no,  no,  father !  Never  that !"  protested  Har 
old. 

"It  is  true ;  but  you  mustn't  fail.  You've  invented  a 
wonderful  thing.  I  saw  that  before  you  finished  it. 
'Twas  for  that,  it  would  seem,  God  spared  me,  when 
my  heart  went  back  on  me  the  last  time — that  I  might 
enjoy  your  triumph  with  you.  We've  got  the  patent, 
all  right.  So  far,  we're  safe.  But  you  must  go  care- 


44  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

fully — with  extreme  caution,  my  son.  Unless  you  get 
sufficient  capital,  you  can't  realize  on  this  invention, 
as  you  ought.  You  must  not,  you  shall  not  repeat  my 
experiences.  The  Fitzgeralds  never  were  business- 
edged.  Few  Irishmen  are." 

"Well,  father,  now  you've  shot  your  shaft,"  Harold 
tried  to  rally  his  father,  "to  come  back  to  the  main 
matter, — just  what  is  it  you're  afraid  of  in  Sydney — 
Dr.  Phillips?" 

"I  don't  know,  Harold.  I  can't  put  it  in  words. 
It's  just  a  feeling — and  a  fear." 

Harold's  expression,  grown  somewhat  grave,  now 
brightened. 

"If  that's  all,  let's  dismiss  it.  Fears  are  merely 
shadows,  for  minds  of  substance  to  subdue." 

He  uttered  this  noble  philosophy  with  a  simplicity 
that  charmed  his  father.  There  was  no  consciousness 
about  him  that  he  had  said  a  fine  and  telling  thing. 
The  father,  infected  by  his  boy's  optimism,  regained 
something  of  his  own. 

"I  guess  you're  right,  after  all.  Anyway,  that's 
wholesome  doctrine.  I've  been  so  long  an  invalid,  my 
mind  may  have  got  blurred.  Sick  folks  get  queer  fan 
cies." 

Then,  when  Harold,  naturally  heightening  in  color, 
told  him  the  tale  of  Dr.  Phillips'  troubles,  the  sympa 
thetic  heart  of  Kenwyn  Fitzgerald  cried  out: 

"And  he  bore  himself  serenely  through  all  this,  and 
wrought  my  cure,  and  that  of  many  others,  no  doubt? 
Surely,  my  fancy  must  have  wronged  him.  I  shall 
never  heed  its  whisper  again !" 

That  night  Sydney  Phillips  was  domiciled  at  the 
Fitzgeralds'.  The  next  morning  Harold  went  away 
to  Dunkirk,  humming  a  little  Norse  ditty  he  had  caught 
from  his  mother's  lips,  when  a  child. 


CHAPTER    VII 

The  Snare  Tightens 

MAY  had  begun  warm,  and  inviting  all  to  freshness 
of  life  and  hope.  But  Harold  was  gone  on  his 
mission  to  convert  bankers  into  backers,  and  his  father 
felt  languorous.  Nor  did  Harold's  first  letter,  telling 
how  glad  every  one  in  Dunkirk  had  seemed  at  sight  of 
him  and  how  many  had  pleasantly  inquired  about  his 
father,  cheer  Kenwyn's  spirit. 

Part  of  the  time  Kenwyn  poked  about  in  the  work 
shop,  musing  over  the  model  and  over  some  other  in 
complete  inventions,  or  what  he  called  "sketches."  Like 
his  boy  he  was  fond  of  linking  invention  with  artistry. 
Part  of  the  time  he  strolled  about  the  grounds,  mak 
ing  suggestions  to  the  gardener,  also  an  artist  in  his 
humble  way. 

Through  the  day  he  saw  little  of  Dr.  Phillips,  but 
of  an  evening  they  played  checkers  or  cards  for  a 
couple  of  hours ;  and  if  any  distrust  had  lingered  after 
Kenwyn's  talk  with  Harold,  it  seemed  to  have  worn 
itself  away.  Phillips  only  casually  mentioned  the  in 
vention.  He  discoursed  mostly  on  his  own  specialties 
or  on  games  and  flowers,  of  which  last  he  evinced  an 
intimate,  wide  knowledge,  and  for  which  he  exhibited 
an  extreme  affection. 

"A  man  so  fond  of  flowers  could  not  have  much  evil 
in  his  nature,"  was  one  of  Kenwyn's  random  reflec 
tions.  He  forgot,  or  did  not  know,  that  the  Aztecs, 
who  delighted  in  human  sacrifices,  whose  religion  was 

45 


46  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

a  bloodthirsty  nightmare,  were  passionately  devoted 
to  floriculture,  and  reveled  almost  as  much  in  gorgeous 
colors  and  in  delicious  perfumes  as  in  grisly  tortures 
and  in  gory  rites. 

When  Harold  had  been  away  nearly  two  weeks,  Dr. 
Phillips  received  this  letter: 

DEAR  SYDNEY: 

I  thank  you  for  your  daily  bulletins.  It  was  like  you  to 
be  so  thoughtful  about  doing  something  I  did  not  ask.  I 
am  now  writing  to  you,  instead  of  father,  because  my  news 
is  not  encouraging,  and  you  must  prepare  his  mind  for  it. 

These  bankers — capitalists,  I  suppose,  they  class  them 
selves — are  not  so  "thick"  as  not  to  see,  and  to  admit 
frankly,  that  my  invention  means  a  revolution  in  many 
processes  of  industry.  But  they  are  timid  about  investing. 
They  say  it  will  take  a  long  time,  as  well  as  much  capital, 
to  establish  it  in  the  industrial  world.  They  cite  instances 
of  the  long  delays  inventors  and  inventions  have  encoun 
tered.  They  hint  that  it  may  be  tangled  up  in  lawsuits 
for  possible  infringements,  by  cunning  and  unscrupulous 
patent  lawyers. 

They  harp  on  the  fact  that  father,  a  man  of  versatile 
talent  as  they  grant,  never  succeeded.  It's  almost  mad 
dening  to  hear  some  of  them  talk,  friendly  as  they  seem. 
I  have  had  so  many  interviews  with  them,  and  with  rich 
depositors  whom  they  suggested  I  should  see,  that  I  am 
this  moment  physically  weary — a  rare  condition  for  me 
— as  well  as  heart-sick,  soul-sick,  over  their  lack  of  grasp, 
of  business  liveness. 

Why,  Sydney,  would  you  believe  it?  one  of  the  livest  of 
them  said,  after  he  had  spent  at  least  two  precious  hours  in 
figuring  out  cost  of  production  and  all  incidental  details  in 
such  a  thorough  way  I  thought  he  must  surely  mean  busi 
ness:  "Well  now,  Mr.  F.,  why  don't  you  lay  this  thing 
before  Tesla,  or  some  great  authority,  and  get  his  O.  K. 
before  you  try  to  start  your  company?" 


THE  SNARE  TIGHTENS  47 

Oh,  the  idiocy,  the  colossal  stupidity  of  the  average  man, 
whether  he  plays  the  part  of  banker  or  merchant !  I  sup 
pose  that's  the  reason  why  we  have  a  few  multi-millionaires 
owning  such  a  vast  majority  of  the  property  of  our  coun 
try.  It's  the  chuckleheadedness  of  the  masses,  particularly 
the  middle-class  people  who  handle  a  few  thousands  and 
think  themselves  plutocrats,  which  gives  the  Captain  Kidds 
of  Industry  their  chance.  I'd  rather  be  a  day-laborer  and 
think  in  five-cent  pieces,  than  such  men  who  are  daily  hand 
ling  thousands,  yet  cannot  think  in  them. 

The  meaning  of  this  long  tirade,  dear  Sydney,  is  an 
acknowledgment  that  you  were  right  and  I  wrong.  I  began 
to  feel  this  fact  after  my  first  interview  with  the  president 
of  the  biggest  concern  here.  I  have  fired  away  for  ten 
precious  days  and  made  not  a  dent  on  their  cerebellums. 
One  of  my  oldest  friends  here,  a  foreman  in  the  slate- 
mines,  without  meaning  to  hurt  my  feelings,  bluntly  said: 
"One  trouble  is,  Harold,  they  don't  take  stock  in  you  as  a 
business  proposition,  because  your  father's  reputation  here 
was  that  of  a  half-cracked  dreamer." 

So  you  see,  Sydney,  I'm  ready  to  take  your  advice  about 
trying  Boston  or  New  York.  I  remember  you  gave  the 
preference  to  Boston,  because  you  said  you  had  old  friends 
there.  Send  me  letters  of  introduction,  and  I  go  straight 
to  that  goal  where  men  of  large  affairs  will  judge  my 
invention  on  its  merits  and  finance  it  properly.  As  they 
are  friends  of  yours,  I  don't  suppose  they  will  demand  the 
lion's  share,  and  if  they  do,  they  can't  have  it,  anyway. 
What  do  you  say?  Wire  me  your  opinion  at  once.  I 
assume  that  father  is  still  making  progress  and  not  missing 
me  to  his  detriment  at  all.  I  have  felt  perfectly  safe  about 
him,  since  you  have  been  there. 

Affectionately  yours, 

HAROLD. 

P.  S.  One  man,  a  miner,  said  to  me  the  day  would  yet 
come,  when  the  Government  would  itself  take  up  every 
valuable  invention  and  handsomely  pension  the  inventor, 


48  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

so  he  could  go  on  inventing.  What  do  you  think  of  that 
for  a  radical  notion?  Yet  it  rather  impressed  me,  coming 
from  the  source  it  did. 

The  smile  of  Sydney  Phillips  at  this  artless  missive, 
slowly  widened.  Twice  he  read  it,  and  paused  reflec 
tively  over  the  sentence  that  began :  "It's  almost  mad 
dening,"  and  the  one  that  closed  with  the  phrase,  "a 
half-cracked  dreamer." 

Then  he  went  forth  and  wired : 

"Wait  letters  introduction.  Meanwhile  comb  Dunkirk 
again.  Your  father  all  right.  Not  fretting." 

On  his  return  he  locked  his  door,  sought  his  desk, 
carefully  composed  and  made  copies  of  two  very  im 
portant  letters. 

One  was  addressed  to  the  Hon.  Jacob  Jackberry,  a 
lawyer  who  had  once  been  a  State  Senator  and  a  very 
successful  lobbyist.  This  Jackberry,  a  tallish  man  with 
a  vulturine  countenance,  who  ill  dressed  an  originally 
rather  elegant  figure,  now  tending  to  obesity,  was  not 
in  high  favor  just  then  with  the  Judges  of  the  Supreme 
Court  in  Equity,  partly  for  some  practices  that  should 
have  caused  instant  close  investigation  and  resulted  in 
prompt  disbarment,  but  especially  perhaps,  because  in 
an  unguarded  moment,  when  "flushed  with  insolence 
and  wine,"  he  had  bragged — or  so  it  was  bruited  in  the 
sacrosanct  corners  of  Pemberton  Square — that  these 
venerable  judges  would  protect  him  in  his  cases,  in 
asmuch  as  he  had  lobbied  to  have  their  salaries  in 
creased. 

Now,  Judges,  even  those  of  the  Supreme  Court  of 
a  sovereign  State,  who  get  six  thousand  a  year  for  up 
holding  old  precedents,  instead  of  establishing  new 


THE  SNARE  TIGHTENS  49 

ones  to  meet  new  conditions  in  the  evolution  of  the  so 
cial  organism,  are  by  no  means  averse  to  having  their 
wages  raised. 

Nevertheless,  being  also  very  dignified  gentlemen 
with  a  fine  scent  for  the  proprieties,  they  do  not  relish 
any  intimations  by  an  inebriated  legal  underling  that 
their  favor  is  purchasable  by  lobbying  activity. 

Jackberry,  however  (as  Phillips  was  well  advised), 
undeterred  by  any  consciousness  of  his  own  unsavori- 
ness  of  repute,  stickled  at  nothing,  from  swindling  a 
confiding  feminine  client  to  forging  a  will  or  producing 
a  false  claimant  to  a  great  estate. 

The  other  letter  was  addressed  to  an  almost  equally 
interesting  Bostonian.  Calvin  Alvin  Winn,  Esquire, 
was  a  retired  merchant-prince,  who  had  amassed  a  very 
cosy  fortune  by  selling  shoddy  goods  on  the  instal 
ment  plan.  This  man  was  of  portly  presence  and  ruddy 
face;  the  kind  of  pleasantly  pompous  personage  who 
makes  it  a  point  to  join  the  most  fashionable  church 
at  hand,  and  who  is  inevitably  chosen  to  pass  the  plate. 

Winn  had  early  experienced  political  ambition  and 
had  joined  one  party  after  another,  seeking  office  and 
preferment. 

His  present  principal  graft  lay  in  what  is  called 
"promoting,"  with  a  little  well-advertised  philanthropy 
on  the  side.  He  had  a  brother  not  quite  so  versatile 
in  fraud  as  himself,  but  equally  inclined  thereto,  who 
was  not  merely  of  the  same  profession  as  Dr.  Phillips, 
but  of  the  same  class  in  college. 

Between  this  trio  and  Sydney  Phillips  the  cordiality 
of  a  perfect  understanding  had  for  years  existed.  He 
could  have  confided  to  them  without  fear  any  plan, 
however  heinous. 

Yet  his  letters  were  so  delicately  worded  that  if  ever 
they  should  happen  to  be  produced  in  court,  or  acci- 


50  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

dentally  seen  by  the  subject  of  them,  they  would  give 
an  impression  merely  of  the  writer's  keenly  sympathetic 
nature  and  amiable  intent. 

Each  letter  bore  the  same  postscript,  which  ran 
ingenuously  thus :  "Please  wire  me  at  once  your  re 
ceipt  of  this.  I  wish  to  be  instantly  sure  that  you  will 
be  on  deck  to  welcome  and  take  good  care  of  my  young 
friend,  Harold,  if  he  arrives  within  a  few  days." 

These  letters  the  doctor  mailed  at  once  and  then 
strolled  pensively  about  the  garden,  admiring  the  flow 
ers  and  meditating  darkly. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

Harold  Loses  His  Best  Friend 

THE  musings  of  Sydney  Phillips  were  suddenly 
broken  by  a  very  respectful  touch  on  his  arm. 
Old  Michael,  the  family  helper  and  faithful  follower 
almost  from  Kenwyn's  childhood,  stood  beside  him  with 
a  disturbed  and  puzzled  look. 

"Beggin'  your  pardon,  Doctor,  for  breakin'  in  on 
your  devotions,"  said  he,  "but  Master  Kenwyn  ron't 
same  to  be  falin'  so  well,  or  ilse  he's  in  wan  of  his  quare 
moods.  He  sint  me  to  the  warkshop  to  fetch  him  up 
that  teenty  machine  o'  Master  Harold's  makin',  and 
he's  layin'  back  this  moment  in  his  big  chair  with  it  on 
his  knees,  mutterin'  low  to  himself,  and  pale  as  a 
ghost." 

"Don't  be  scared,  Michael,  I'll  go  to  him  at  once," 
Phillips  reassured  him,  veiling  a  look  of  wolfish  de 
light. 

He  found  Kenwyn  in  a  condition  of  almost  complete 
collapse  which  rather  surprised  him,  although  he  had 
never  believed  in  his  patient's  ultimate  recovery. 
When  he  administered  a  stimulant,  however,  the  patient 
at  once  responded. 

"I  can't  account  for  this,  Doctor,"  said  he,  after 
a  few  minutes.  "Three  hours  ago  I  was  feeling  splen 
didly,  and  then  a  singular,  slow,  nervous  depression 
began.  Finally  I  sent  for  this  model" — he  smiled 
proudly — "to  liven  me  up.  Thought  it  might  work  like 

51 


a  charm,  as  they  say,  on  my  spirits." 

"Not  a  bad  notion,  Mr.  Fitzgerald !  Mere  inani 
mate  objects  do  sometimes.  That's  the  reason  back  of 
our  ancestors'  fondness  for  amulets.  Have  you  been 
suffering  any  pain?" 

"Not  an  iota.  That's  the  strangeness  of  it.  I've 
been  simply  contending  with  softly  successive  waves 
of  lassitude.  I  was  growing  fainter  and  fainter,  till 
you  gave  me  your  drug  just  now.  All  at  once  I  began 
to  feel  alive  again.  But  tell  me,  is  this  new  kind  of 
seizure  serious?  Had  you  better  wire  for  Harold  to 
come  back?" 

"I  confess  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  the  Doc 
tor  answered.  "Shively's  opinion,  great  authority  as 
he  is,  did  not  wholly  reassure  me.  Yet  you  have  seemed, 
since  his  visit,  to  be  gaining  steadily  and  rapidly.  Per 
haps,  to  be  on  the  safe  side,  I'd  better  wire  Harold 
to  return,  but  not  so  as  to  alarm  him  needlessly.  Sup 
pose  I  simply  say :  'Father  would  like  to  see  you  be 
fore  you  start  for  Boston'?" 

"So  he  has  failed  to  find  backing  in  Dunkirk?"  asked 
Kenwyn.  "I  thought  he  would.  My  reputation  there 
could  hardly  help  attaching  to  him,  poor  unsuspecting 
fellow !  And  so  Boston  is  to  be  his  next  objective  point? 
I  infer  from  what  you  have  let  slip  he  must  have  writ 
ten  you  recently." 

"I  had  a  letter  this  morning.  It's  in  my  room.  Shall 
I  bring  it?" 

"Not  now.  I  can  easily  guess  its  contents.  He 
didn't  want  to  depress  me  by  writing  directly  of  his 
non-success  in  our  old  home.  Of  course  not.  He  was 
always  considerate  of  others'  feelings,  just  like  his 
mother." 

Kenwyn  Fitzgerald  sighed.  To  divert  his  mind,  Phil 
lips  picked  up  the  model. 


HAROLD  LOSES  HIS  BEST  FRIEND       53 

"This  ought  to  brace  you  up  more  than  my  medi 
cines,"  said  he,  encouragingly.  "Success  is  here,  right 
here,  for  your  brilliant  son.  Like  yourself,  I  regarded 
his  Dunkirk  trip  as  a  waste  of  time,  except  for  experi 
ence  in  talking  this  up.  I  originally  urged  New  York 
or  Boston  as  his  best  fields ;  and  as  for  Boston  I  can 
supply  him  with  introductions  there  to  several  men  of 
larger  mental  mold  and  monetary  associations  than 
he  would  be  likely  to  find  in  small  towns." 

"I'm  glad  of  that.  You're  practical — the  kind  of  an 
adviser  my  son  needs." 

"And  I  think,"  pursued  Phillips,  "it's  much  better 
he  should  come  back  here  before  he  starts  for  Boston. 
It  will  reinforce  you;  and  will  put  him  in  a  pleasanter 
frame  of  mind ;  a  more  winning,  conquering,  mood  for 
his  next  battle." 

"Did  he  write  as  if  depressed?  That  would  be  un 
like  him!" 

"You  have  reason  to  be  proud  of  your  son,"  said 
the  Doctor.  "No,  he  is  not  depressed ;  but  his  letter 
was  a  bit  depressing.  It  showed  irritation,  a  feeling 
one  should  never  have  a  taint  of,  when  approaching  a 
business  conference." 

"That's  very  true.  We'll  smooth  him  out,  between 
us,  before  we  send  him  off  to  Boston!" 

"You  know  the  town?" 

"Yes,  and  I  like  it,  too.  Boston  is  in  some  respects 
our  grandest  city.  Our  noblest  American  orator  and 
clearest  political  seer,  Wendell  Phillips,  was  born  there. 
So,  too,  our  most  famous  author,  Poe.  Her  list  of 
illustrious  children  is  long;  and  her  children  by  adop 
tion,  Julia  Ward  Howe  and  John  Boyle  O'Reilly,  were 
torch-bearers  of  the  race." 

"Quite  so,"  assented  Phillips,  a  vague  speculation 
flitting  across  his  mind  whether  it  might  not  be  of  some 


54  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

advantage  to  him,  if  he  could  establish  some  kinship 
with  the  first-named  agitator. 

"The  trouble  with  Boston  now  seems  to  be  that  she 
has  been  for  some  time  a  moral  loafer  on  the  reputa 
tion  of  her  former  greatness,"  said  Kenwyn.  "Pos 
sibly  she  still  produces  great  men,  but  she  fails  to 
recognize  them.  So  how  can  the  outside  world  be 
expected  to?  Yet  I  heard,  on  my  last  visit,  a  really 
great  speaker — a  man  who  thinks  with  his  heart  as 
well  as  his  head — rock  her  historic  'Cradle  of  Liberty,' 
Faneuil  Hall." 

"What  was  his  name?"  asked  Phillips. 

"His  name?  Doctor  George  B.  Clark.  By  the  way, 
he  was  one  of  your  own  noble  calling.  His  personality 
was  magnetic,  striking!  And  yet  somehow  even  that 
was  merged  and  lost  sight  of  in  the  flood  of  what  he 
said." 

"Did  Harold  meet  him?"  Phillips  now  spoke  with 
more  evident  interest. 

"No,  Harold  wasn't  with  me  then;  and  if  I  men 
tioned  to  him  later  the  great  impression  I  received,  he 
probably  didn't  take  much  notice.  He's  too  young  yet 
to  find  much  interest  in  such  things,  and  too  wrapped 
up  in  his  inventions,  besides." 

Came  a  moment's  silence. 

"Well,  we've  talked  enough  now,"  finally  said  the 
Doctor.  "I'll  go  send  that  wire  to  Harold.  Mean 
time,  if  you  have  the  slightest  recurrence  of  that  faint- 
ness,  take  one  of  these  'dynamites' — nitroglycerine  tab 
lets  ;  but  I  don't  think  you'll  need  them.  And  have 
Michael  put  you  to  bed  and  cover  you  warmly.  An 
hour  from  now  I  ought  to  find  you  in  a  calm,  natural 
sleep  like  a  child's,  with  a  very  slight  perspiration." 

"I  don't  need  Michael's  aid,"  answered  Kenwyn.  "I 
can  put  myself  to  bed,  if  you  wish,  though  I  don't  feel 


HAROLD  LOSES  HIS  BEST  FRIEND       55 

a  bit  sleepy.  My  brain  is  clear  and  vibrant  as  a  bell, 
and  my  will-power  has  come  back.  Still,  I  will  do  your 
bidding.  You  know  best.  Send  the  telegram.  I'm  not 
dying,  except,  as  they  say,  dying  to  see  my  boy  again." 

Harold  thought  it  strange  the  auto  did  not  meet  him 
at  the  station  when  he  returned,  since  he  had  wired  the 
probable  time  of  his  arrival.  The  day  was  drifting  into 
an  opalescent  twilight.  One  star-like  planet  had 
emerged  through  the  veil,  and  was  gloriously  shining. 

Harold  had  lost  all  sense  of  his  Dunkirk  irritations 
in  the  thought  how  soon  he  would  see  his  loved  father 
and  his  faithful,  new-found  friend  once  more.  He 
looked  about  for  a  conveyance.  All  in  sight  had  been 
taken.  He  was  tempted  to  walk.  He  could  reach  home 
in  twenty  minutes,  he  knew,  and  give  them  a  joyful 
surprise. 

Michael,  the  old  helper,  had  just  about  this  time 
gone  down  to  the  kitchen  to  bring  up  Kenwyn's  sup 
per.  Kenwyn  was  propped  on  pillows,  gazing  far  into 
the  twilight,  at  the  star,  that  seemed  not  merely  to 
scintillate,  but  to  palpitate ;  to  throb,  a  thing  of  life. 

Beside  him  on  the  coverlet,  within  easy  reach  of  his 
hand,  shone  the  model  of  cunningly  interwoven  steel. 
Curious  impulse  that  had  prompted  the  father  to  take 
this  to  bed,  as  a  child  takes  a  favorite  toy !  Certainly 
he  had  not  done  so  from  any  fear  that  it  might  be 
spirited  away.  Possibly  he  was  but  whimsically  yield 
ing  to  a  desire  for  its  nearness,  because  it  symbolized 
to  his  loving  father-heart  his  absent  boy,  and  seemed 
a  veritable  part  and  parcel  of  him. 

Kenwyn,  as  he  watched  the  star,  found  himself  grow 
ing  singularly  fanciful,  and  realized  that  he  was  be 
coming  strangely  tired.  He  had  felt  slight  spells  of 
faintness  during  the  afternoon,  but  just  when  he  was 


56  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

beginning  to  think  he  had  better  take  a  dose  of  medi 
cine,  they  had  disappeared. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  he  was  not  really  over-tired.  A 
bird  sang  up  from  the  garden,  as  he  watched  the  throb 
bing  star. 

The  star  now  seemed  to  him  more  vivid,  more  alive, 
than  himself.  It  spoke  to  him,  it  imaged  the  always- 
welcoming  face  of  his  wife,  Hildegarde,  as  the  song 
of  the  wistful  evening  bird  reminded  his  "dreaming 
ear"  of  her  soft  Scandinavian  voice,  improvising  a 
love-lay  or  humming  a  folksong. 

Then  the  voice  in  his  dreaming  ear  melted  away, 
and  the  poetic  sentiment  of  the  twilight  lapsed  into 
a  mood  of  serene  mental  exaltation,  coupled  with  a  dim 
sense  of  sudden  physical  detachment.  All  his  past 
aspirations,  troubles,  bewilderments,  griefs  of  thwarted 
endeavor,  blurred  together  in  what  his  mind  accepted 
as  the  true  perspective,  after  all. 

Was  it  the  face  in  the  star  flooding  the  soul  of  him 
with  mystic  illumination? 

Almost,  for  one  supreme  minute,  he  seemed  to  pierce 
the  veil  of  the  opalescent  mystery ;  to  comprehend  life 
as  a  whole,  embracing  death  as  a  part,  not  as  a  finish; 
not  a  close,  but  a  prelude  of  stranger  and  sweeter  har 
monies. 

The  illumination — hallucination  ?— =-f aded  as  instantly 
as  it  had  come.  His  gaze  fell  from  the  star  of  God's 
workshop  to  the  shining  little  mass  of  steel,  from  his 
boy's.  He  stretched  a  wavering  hand  and  feebly 
grasped  it.  Was  it  slipping  from  his  fingers ;  and  why 
was  not  Harold  here?  Was  it  not  time  he  should  ar 
rive  ? 

The  door  opened,  but  Kenwyn  did  not  now  turn  his 
face.  His  eyes  were  on  the  model ;  his  lids  were  dream 
ily  drooping  over  them. 


HAROLD  LOSES  HIS  BEST  FRIEND      57 

The  man  who  entered  started  slightly  at  the  fixity 
of  Kenwyn's  attitude;  then  advanced  swiftly  to  the 
side  of  the  bed,  and  took  Kenwyn  by  the  right  wrist. 

Through  the  door  came  the  old  family  retainer  with 
the  supper-tray,  which  he  placed  on  a  small  table,  and 
then  stood  respectfully  watching  the  two  figures. 

The  upright  one  relaxed  his  grasp  on  the  other's 
wrist,  bent  closer,  drew  back,  and  stood  in  silence  over 
the  strange  sight  of  a  dead  man  with  his  left  hand 
clutching  a  small  steel  toy  that  seemed  eluding  his 
grasp. 

Was  the  near  spectator  smiling?  The  old  family 
helper  could  not  see  that  face ;  but  a  thrill  of  pre 
scient  horror  pierced  him.  His  gray  lips  twitched,  as 
if  he  strove  to  speak. 

The  gaze  of  the  tall  man  by  the  bed  no  longer  rested 
on  the  face  of  its  occupant.  Instead,  it  gleamed  on 
the  shining  model,  gloating  in  twin  triumph  over  the 
truth  of  his  professional  prophecy  and  the  mechanism 
that  spoke  the  red  word,  millions,  to  his  mind. 

Harold  came  running  through  the  door. 

"Father!     Sydney!     What  does  this  mean?" 

Phillips,  wheeling  rapidly,  caught  him  in  both  arms. 

"It  means  you  must  be  brave,  dear  Harold!  It  is 
all  over,  as  I  feared  and  foresaw.  But  he  passed  away 
painlessly — happily.  See !  His  face  wears  a  smile ; 
and  he  is  still  clasping  the  model  which  spoke  to  his 
heart  of  you,  and  of  your  return.  You  must  be  brave !" 

Harold  did  not  seem  to  hear  the  soothing  words.  He 
had  sprung  from  the  detaining  arms  and  flung  himself 
down  by  the  bed  with  a  choked,  inarticulate  cry,  seiz 
ing  the  unresponsive  hand. 

Michael,  with  ashen  face,  was  weeping  and  moaning 
low :  "Why  couldn't  it  ha'  been  me  instead,  good 
Lord?" 


58  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

Sydney  Phillips  fell  into  his  former  attitude  and 
expression  of  countenance — gloating. 

The  throbbing  star  still  gleamed  through  the  win 
dow  above.  The  lonely  little  bird  still  sang  below. 


CHAPTER    IX 

Donald  Brush,  Reporter 

DURING    the   first    month    following   his    father's 
death,   Harold  himself  seemed  scarcely  to  be  a 
living  thing,  but  to  be  going  through  the  motions  of 
life  automatically.     He  did  not  talk  about  his  loss  with 
Sydney,  or  with  old  Michael.     He  appeared  stunned. 

Phillips  tactfully  respected  this  reticence  and  even 
made  no  reference  to  the  long-neglected  model,  till  at 
last  one  day  Harold  said:  "Sydney,  I  must  be  doing 
something." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  at  last,"  answered 
the  physician.  "Spend  the  mornings  in  your  work 
shop  now — not  poring  over  books,  as  you  have  been 
doing." 

"No,  I  must  get  away  from  here ;  get  away  even 
from  you,  who  have  been  so  kind  and  sympathetic.  I 
must  go  out  into  the  world  and  see  things  and  people. 
I  don't  seem  yet  to  find  any  interest  in  my  invention ; 
but  perhaps  I'd  better  take  those  letters  of  introduc 
tion  from  you  and  go  to  Boston.  The  change  may 
help  me." 

"I  think  it  will,  and  my  friends  there  will  show  you 
every  attention.  You  don't  have  to  talk  any  business 
with  them  till  you  feel  disposed.  Possibly,  after  a 
while,  I'll  join  you  there.  Just  now  I'm  trying  to 
soften  my  own  great  loss  by  working  in  the  laboratory. 
There's  no  balm  better  than  work.  But  you're  not  yet 
ready  for  that,  perhaps?" 

59 


60  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

"No,"  answered  Harold,  "I  feel  now  that  I  must 
get  away  somewhere;  perhaps  I  may  go  further  than 
Boston — to  London,  Paris,  the  East.  You,  meantime, 
will  look  after  this  place  for  me ;  and  the  rents  of  these 
buildings  in  the  city  which  uncle  left  us  a  life  interest 
in — now  coming  all  to  me — you  can  collect  for  me  now 
and  right  along  till  I  return.  What  should  I  do  ?  Give 
you  a  written  order  to  represent  me?" 

"Quite  likely  that  would  be  sufficient ;  but  I  suppose 
a  regular  power  of  attorney  would  be  the  proper  form," 
said  Phillips,  controlling  his  elation.  "I'll  get  the  docu 
ment  tomorrow  when  I  go  into  the  city.  Between- 
whiles,  if  your  bank  account  is  low,  let  me  furnish  you 
money.  When  I  have  collected  your  rents,  you  can 
pay  me  back." 

"I  don't  know  what  I  have  on  hand,"  Harold  re 
plied,  "but  I  suppose  there  must  be  still  several  hun 
dred." 

He  went  to  a  desk.  "Here's  my  bankbook.  Take  it 
down  tomorrow  and  have  it  balanced.  Then  you  can 
keep  it  and  make  deposits  to  my  account." 

Phillips  could  hardly  master  himself.  How  mar- 
velously  things  do  come  of  their  own  accord  to  one 
who  waits  in  patience! 

Next  day  Harold  signed  a  power  of  attorney,  some 
what  simplified  from  the  ordinary  printed  form,  and 
so  complete  in  its  provisions  that  if  Harold's  mind  had 
been  of  normal  clarity,  some  of  the  expressions  would 
have  given  him  pause.  But,  as  Phillips  had  calculated, 
he  did  not  read  it  carefully ;  merely  glanced  at  it,  and 
signed  with  Michael  and  the  gardener  as  witnesses. 

"Dr.  Phillips  will  now  attend  to  everything  for  me," 
said  Harold.  "I'm  going  away  to  Boston,  maybe  for 
some  months." 

He  took  the  train  that  night,  and  with  him  Phillips 


DONALD  BRUSH,  REPORTER     61 

was  careful  to  see  he  carried  the  patented  model. 

"You  can  have  Senator  Jackberry  lock  it  up  in  his 
safe,"  suggested  the  Doctor,  "if  you  have  any  fear  it 
might  be  stolen  from  you." 

"I  have  no  fear,"  replied  Harold.  "There  seems 
to  be  in  my  mind,  just  now,  no  room  for  anything  but 
grief.  Even  friendship,  even  yours,  forgive  me,  now 
seems  distant  and  illusive.  I  still  feel  stunned." 

"You  will  come  bravely  and  nobly  out  of  this,  my 
friend,"  replied  his  Doctor,  "and  in  course  of  time  the 
memory  of  your  mother  and  father  will  be  transmuted 
from  sorrow  into  two-fold  inspiration — a  vitalizing 
force.  I  myself  am  but  beginning  to  emerge  from  the 
Valley  of  the  Shadow,  and  to  see  there  is  always  work 
beckoning  for  me;  and  be  eased  and  reconciled  to  life. 
Youth  is  resilient;  and  a  change  of  scene  is  often  a 

wondrous  medicine." 

i 

Harold,  with  surprise,  found  himself  rousing  a  lit 
tle  out  of  his  profound  lethargy  of  spirit,  when  he 
reached  Boston.  Though  he  had,  at  times,  a  tinge  of 
the  "rush"  temperament,  characterizing  most  Ameri 
cans,  he  felt  in  no  hurry,  after  his  arrival,  to  present 
his  letters  of  introduction. 

Instead,  he  decided  to  install  himself  in  some  pleas 
ant  apartment  and  get  acquainted  with  the  town. 
He  found  advertisements  of  rooms  on  Huntington  Ave 
nue,  near  the  Public  Library.  On  seeing  Copley 
Square  he  liked  the  location,  and  proceeded  to  take 
lodgings  on  the  Avenue. 

Chance  determines  many  things.  The  first  day,  in 
the  rather  dim  hallway,  a  young  man  collided  with 
him,  heartily  apologized,  and  then  asked  him  for  a 
match.  Harold  did  not  smoke  but  he  always  carried 
matches ;  and  seeing  that  the  stranger  had  a  filled  pipe 


62  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

in  his  mouth,  with  a  friendly  smile  he  struck  one  and 
held  it  to  the  bowl. 

"You're  a  Westerner,  or  a  Southerner?"  said  the 
man,  who  was  no  more  than  thirty  but  looked  older, 
for  his  face,  though  handsome,  was  deep-lined.  "No 
Easterner,  or  certainly  no  Bostonian  to  the  manner 
born,  would  do  that !" 

Harold  smiled — the  first  smile  since  his  father's 
death. 

"I'm  a  Pennsylvanian,  but  I've  been  living  out  West, 
for  some  time." 

"That  accounts  for  it !"  returned  the  other.  "I  lived 
West,  too,  when  a  boy.  My  name's  Brush,  Don  Brush, 
newspaper  man  at  your  service,  when  off  duty  from 
'The  Star.'  This  is  my  day  off,  and  I  was  figuring  on 
a  good  respectable  snooze  over  Howell's  latest  novel, 
full  of  parlor  Socialism.  But  I'd  rather  have  a  chat 
with  you,  if  you've  nothing  better  to  do.  This  is  my 
room,  next  to  yours.  What's  your  name?" 

"Fitzgerald." 

"Got  a  handle  to  it?" 

"Harold." 

"I'll  call  you  that,  if  you  don't  mind.  Won't  you 
come  in?" 

He  threw  open  his  door,  and  Harold  entered.  It 
was  a  more  attractive  lair  than  most  reporters  are 
supposed  to  inhabit. 

"Take  that  lounge  chair  and  light  up !"  he  invited, 
cordially. 

"I  don't   smoke." 

"Noble  boy !  But  I  can  smoke  enough  for  both  of 
us,  if  you  don't  squizzle  at  the  smell." 

"No,  indeed.     I  rather  like  it." 

"All  right,  here  goes !"  And  Brush  fired  up.  A  few 
minutes  later,  the  two  men  had  gone  far  on  the  road 


DONALD  BRUSH,  REPORTER     63 

of  getting  acquainted.  At  Harold's  account  of  his 
father's  death,  the  reporter  looked  sympathetic. 

"What  brought  you  to  Boston,  of  all  places?"  asked 
Brush,  at  last.  "I  should  think  you  would  have  sought 
the  heart  of  some  great  forest,  the  bosom  of  Mother 
Nature,  or  taken  a  long  sea  voyage ;  enlisted  for  some 
South  pole  picnic  or  strange  adventure  of  some  kind !" 

Then  Harold  began  talking  of  his  invention,  and 
the  eyes  of  Brush  widened  a  bit  as  the  new-comer  dis 
coursed  on  his  model  and  the  millions  it  meant. 

"Great  Edison!"  ejaculated  Brush.  "Do  you  mean 
to  tell  me  that  you,  you  a  mere  boy,  have  invented 
and  patented  such  a  thing?  Where  is  it?  Concealed 
about  your  person  or  locked  up  in  a  safe?" 

"Here's  Uncle  Sam's  recognition  of  it,"  replied  Har 
old,  producing  the  patent  deed  from  his  pocket.  "Also, 
if  you  think  I'm  exaggerating  its  value,  read  these 
letters  of  introduction  from  Sydney  Phillips  to  some 
big  Bostonians,  while  I  go  get  the  model  itself  from 
my  trunk  and  let  you  see  her.  She  can  tell  her  own 
tale  better  than  I  can." 

Brush  had  skimmed  the  documents  before  Harold  re- 
entered,  and  his  imagination  was  already  awakened; 
for  Sydney's  letters  were  masterpieces,  and  Brush  knew 
that  the  men  to  whom  they  were  addressed  were  on 
the  fringe  of  a  large  financial  group. 

Professional  instinct  bubbled  up,  a  few  moments 
after  he  had  seen  the  model,  which  fascinated  him  at 
once  almost  as  much  as  it  had  Sydney  Phillips. 

"I  say,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  exclaimed,  "when  your 
company  has  been  formed — and  not  a  word  about  it 
in  the  meantime  to  any  other  outsider! — let  me  have 
the  glory  of  giving  the  story  to  the  public.  Let  me 
have  a  scoop  for  my  paper,  and  add  to  my  credit,  be 
side  getting  perhaps  fifty  bones  extra  for  my  humble 


64  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

self !  You  can  help  me  spend  them  too.  Small  moneys 
were  made  to  be  spent,  so's  to  keep  small  people  happy 
and  toiling.  Millions  are  to  be  kept,  hived,  shrined, 
adored!  Well,  how  about  it?" 

"All  right,"  answered  Harold.  "So  far  as  I  can  con 
trol  it,  you  shall  have  the  first  news  of  my  company, 
but  it  may  be  some  time  before  it's  formed,  you  know. 
I'm  going  to  go  slow  about  it,  and  pick  my  associates 
carefully.  I'm  not  quite  such  a  dewy  daisy  as  you 
seem  to  believe." 

"Forgive  my  assumption  and  convince  me  to  the  con 
trary  !"  laughed  Brush,  blowing  a  cloud  of  vapor. 

"I  will;  but  what  do  you  think  of  these  letters  of  in 
troduction,  and  what  do  you  know  of  the  men?  Syd 
ney,  who  gave  them  to  me — he's  a  true  friend,  I  know — 
didn't  vouch  for  them  absolutely.  He  said  they  were 
old  acquaintances  rather  than  close  friends,  but  he  be 
lieved  them  square  and  he  knew  they  were  in  touch  with 
big  financiers,  if  not  able  to  swing  things  all  by  them 
selves.  He  advised  me  also  to  be  very  careful  about 
whom  I  tied  up  with." 

"His  advice  is  first-rate,"  replied  Brush.  "I've  heard 
of  Senator  Jackberry.  I  was  covering  politics  for  a 
while  when  he  was  on  that  lay.  I  don't  know  anything 
against  him,  except  that  he  had  the  reputation  of  be 
ing  an  adroit  politician  some  years  ago,  and  something 
of  a  lobbyist,  after  that.  I  heard  a  rumor  that  he 
would  have  had  the  nomination  for  District  Attorney, 
if  a  woman  client,  who  claimed  he  had  overcharged  her 
for  getting  a  divorce,  hadn't  gone  about  quietly  queer 
ing  him.  This  rather  roused  my  sympathies,  for  I  sup 
pose  lawyers  have  to  charge  even  women  fat  fees  at 
times.  Lawyers  have  to  live,  you  know;  and  besides, 
I've  known  more  than  one  ambitious  man  queered  by  a 
selfish,  vindictive  or  utterly  empty  woman." 


DONALD  BRUSH,  REPORTER     65 

"Ah !"  exclaimed  Harold,  recalling  his  father's  and 
Sydney's  counsel,  "that,  at  least,  shall  never  happen 
to  me!" 

"I  swear,  I  hope  not!"  cried  Brush  with  singular 
vehemence.  "I  guess  Jackberry's  all  right,  anyway. 
As  to  Calvin  Alvin  Winn — great  name,  isn't  it? — he's 
quite  a  philanthropist — a  philo  with  a  funny  bee;  has 
identified  himself  with  every  political  party,  I  believe, 
and  never  got  a  nomination  for  anything,  except  to 
take  up  collections  for  foreign  missions.  He's  what 
they  call  a  'joiner',  but  a  mighty  pleasant  fellow  to 
meet ;  never  hands  out  bad  cigars  to  the  boys ;  always 
flashes  a  box  of  the  best  and  says  with  a  grin:  'Take 
another !'  One  of  my  rules,  Harold,  is  'Never  look  a 
gift-cigar  in  the  mouth !'  but  that  doesn't  apply  to 
Cal.  Al.  Winn.  His  brand  of  cigars  is  no  fake." 

"He's  well  fixed,  financially?" 

"I  reckon  so.  Comfortably,  at  any  rate,  and  close 
to  money.  I'm  inclined  to  O.K.  him,  even  though  I've 
heard  he  made  his  first  pile  selling  unsanitary,  shoddy 
clothing  on  instalments.  Maybe  he  didn't  know  any 
better,  then.  Yes,  he'll  do.  Look  out  for  him,  though 
— look  out  for  'em  all.  You  know- 
Harold  laughed. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  he.  "But  when  they  get  up 
against  me /" 

"I  see  you're  wise,  all  right,"  answered  Brush,  nod 
ding  approval.  "Just  one  thing,  however;  make  no 
move  without  putting  me  next !  Is  that  agreed  ?" 

Harold  nodded ;  and  the  bond,  so  strangely  woven 
between  them,  drew  closer  still. 

The  speedy  outcome  of  the  comradery  thus  estab 
lished  was  that  Harold,  who  also  craved  more  space 
than  one  room,  proposed  they  should  rent  a  small 
apartment  together  for  the  summer.  They  discovered 


66  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

one  near-by,  at  a  price  which  to  Harold  seemed  a  song, 
and  which  Brush,  more  economical  by  necessity,  ad-" 
mitted  was  "like  finding  it."  Harold's  friendship  for 
the  newspaper-man  soon  equalled  that  which  he  felt  for 
Sydney  Phillips,  without  in  any  way  supplanting  that 
sentiment. 

Harold  felt  surprise  from  the  very  first,  that  his  new 
liking  for  Brush  should  cheer  him  so  greatly,  should 
put  away  his  grief  on  a  back  shelf  in  his  mind,  reconcile 
him  with  life  and  renew  his  interest  in  mankind.  Yet 
Brush's  occasional  outbursts  of  pessimism  did  jar  him 
excessively.  There  must,  he  reflected,  be  some  sub 
stantial  cause  for  such  moods ;  but  he  would  not  ask 
the  cause  or  even  seek  to  divine  it. 

Brush,  however,  gave  him  an  opening,  before  long, 
by  remarking  one  day  that  "friendship  was  a  divine 
ease  and  love  was  generally  a  divine  disease." 

"Don't  catch  it,  Harold,  my  brother,"  added  he. 

"Little  danger,  I  guess,"  said  Harold.  "I  never 
yet  have  felt  a  touch  of  that  emotion,  though  I  like  to 
look  at  beauty." 

"Don't  look  at  it  too  attentively !  But,  perhaps 
you're  safe  in  Boston." 

"That's  rank  treason  and  blasphemy !  I've  only 
been  here  a  fortnight  yet,  but  I've  already  seen  some 
very  pretty  faces,  and  one  very  beautiful  woman  in 
particular,  with  a  most  singular  name — Yetive  Soule." 

"Damn  her!"  cried  Brush,  with  a  distortion  of  visage 
that  startled  Harold.  "How  in  Hell  did  you  happen 
to  run  afoul  of  her?  Do  you  know  her?" 

"No,  it  was  perfectly  simple.  I  went  into  a  pho 
tographic  studio  on  Boylston  Street  the  other  day,  to 
buy  a  picture  that  had  caught  my  fancy.  She  was  at 
the  counter,  having  a  parcel  made  up,  and  giving  her 
name  and  address.  I  couldn't  help  hearing  it,  and  then 


67 

seeing  it  written  down  by  her,  when  the  clerk  asked 
how  to  spell  it.  She  turned  her  face  on  me,  not  in  a 
bold  way,  but  rather  nonchalantly." 

"Ay,  ay !"  Brush  snarled  gutturally,  the  writhe  of 
his  visage  gone,  but  a  livid  flush  remaining. 

"It  was  an  unforgettable  face,  Don,"  continued  Har 
old,  "a  face  that  seemed  to  have  been  carved  out  of 
creamy  ivory,  lit  with  large  dark-hazel  eyes  and  with  a 
loose  and  careless  cloud  of  curious  coppery  hair.  I 
never  saw  the  like." 

"Capital  description!"  murmured  Brush,  forcing  a 
laugh.  "You've  missed  your  vocation.  You  should 
ha'  been  a  reporter !" 

"She  was  almost  repulsive  to  me,  somehow,"  Harold 
went  on.  "I  didn't  glance  at  her  again,  but  hurried 
my  purchase  and  hastened  away ;  and  do  you  know, 
Don,  I  thought  I  heard  a  voice  of  extreme  sweetness 
remark  on  my  retreat,  'Rather  good-looking  fellow,  but 
what  cowboy  manners !' ' 

"Cultivate  'em!"  said  Brush.  "You  might  need  'em 
some  time !" 

"From  the  way  you've  spoken,"  Harold  hesitated,  "I 
infer  you  know  her  personally?" 

"I  do !  Or  rather,  I  did.  But  never  mind !  'No 
more  o'  that,  Hal,  an  thou  lov'st  me,'  as  wise  old  Jack 
Falstaff  once  remarked  to  a  Prince  of  men  not  quite 
so  guileless  as  you.  I  must  rush  away  now.  I've  an 
engagement  elsewhere  which  I  near  forgot.  Ta !  ta !  I 
must  be  off.  May  see  you  at  midnight,  if  you're  up." 

He  seized  his  hat,  and  bolted  from  the  room.  Har 
old  had  never  seen  him  in  such  a  mood,  and  the  disturb 
ance  lingered  in  his  mind  for  a  long  time  after  the  hasty 
exit.  Harold  would  have  been  aghast,  had  he  followed 
his  friend  around  the  corner. 

Brush  was  now  leaning  over  a  bar,  and  with  a  trem- 


68  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

bling  hand  was  pouring  out  a  drink  of  rum,  "the  pet 
liquor  of  gentlemen  and  pirates,"  as  Mr.  Lindsay  Swift 
says.  The  drink  was  a  tall  one.  He  threw  it  down  his 
throat.  Then  he  poured  another  and  a  taller,  which 
he  drank  slowly,  glaring  at  the  barkeeper  truculently; 
but  the  latter  knew  his  customer. 

"Pretty  good  stuff?"  he  ventured. 

"Hellish  fine!"  was  the  critical  reply. 

Don  Brush  threw  down  a  quarter,  nodded,  still  scowl 
ing,  and  strode  briskly  out.  He  walked  a  few  blocks 
rapidly ;  entered  another  rum-shrine ;  drank  deep  once 
more,  and  emerged  looking  more  serene. 

Carefully  he  filled  and  lit  his  big-bowled  pipe  and 
strolled  pensively  along  to  his  newspaper-office. 

In  that  atmosphere  of  stale  smoke  and  over-used 
words  he  was  always  welcomed  and  prized,  in  spite  of 
his  known  aberrations. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Don!  What's  up?  Thought  you 
were  off  to-day,"  said  a  fellow-reporter,  looking  up 
from  his  typewriter. 

"So  I  am,  but  I  thought  I'd  come  round  and  just  try 
a  little  scribbling  for  the  fun  of  it.  I've  got  an  inspi 
ration,  a  hunch  from  the  Infinite." 

"Nail  her,"  exclaimed  the  other,  "and  shut  up !" 

Don  sat  down  at  his  desk  and  wrote  a  little  of  his 
article  on  a  piece  of  dun  paper  with  a  blunt  pencil. 

"The  Professional  Beauty,"  was  the  heading. 

He  stared  at  the  words  a  while,  then  muttered  to 
himself:  "No,  damn  her,  I  can't  lose  her!  I  guess  I'd 
better  walk  some  more  to  brighten  my  wits.  By-by !" 

His  fellow-scribbler  blinked  after  him  pensively  a 
couple  of  minutes  and  whistled  softly.  His  thought 
was  this :  "I'm  devilish  afraid  dear  old  Don  is  get 
ting  a  good  running  start  for  a  fortnight's  jag.  Too 
derned  bad — and  we'll  need  him  so,  tomorrow !" 


CHAPTER  X 

The  Spiders  and  the  Fly 

WHEN  Harold  entered  the  waiting-room  of  Sena 
tor  Jackberry's  handsomely  appointed  suite  of 
offices,  the  Senator  was  just  stepping  from  his  own 
room,  labeled  "Private,"  over  to  the  one  occupied  by 
his  bookkeeper  and  by  some  small  legal  boys  who  were 
being  hatched  into  practitioners  under  his  auspices. 
These  boys  were  always  well  paid  for  in  advance  by 
their  relatives,  according  to  the  principle  of  the  olden 
days  of  apprenticeship. 

Even  the  son  of  an  old  comrade,  who  had  committed 
the  generous  error  of  saving  juvenile  Jackberry  from 
drowning  in  Jamaica  Pond,  had  no  exception  made  in 
his  favor  to  this  rigid  office  rule.  It  was  one  of  the 
gems  of  Jackberry's  wisdom  that  one  always  values 
much  more  what  one  has  to  pay  well  for. 

Jackberry  had  a  store  of  such  fine  practical  adages, 
garnered  since  his  graduating  from  Harvard  Univer 
sity.  He  had  also  a  knack  of  coining  neat  expressions 
to  extol  or  extenuate  vicious  deeds.  Keeping  a  helpless 
ward,  who  had  ignorantly  had  him  appointed  trustee 
of  a  small  estate,  three  years  in  Chancery,  or  Equity, 
as  Americans  call  that  court  of  last  resort  for  correct 
ing  the  manifold  errors  of  law,  while  the  sick  ward's 
little  family  had  suffered  all  the  hardships  of  poverty, 
Jackberry  felicitously  termed  "showing  grim  friend 
ship"  to  the  victims  of  his  malice  and  his  greed. 

His  vulturine  face,  nevertheless,  lit  up  with  an  in- 

69 


70  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

gratiating  smile,  as  he  noted  Harold's  entry.  Turn 
ing,  he  advanced  with  extended  hand,  and  an  accent  of 
warm  cordiality. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  at  last,  Mr.  Fitzgerald !  Step 
right  into  my  private  office  and  I'll  join  you  in  a  min 
ute." 

A  little  later  Harold  was  remarking:  "You  gave 
me  a  fine  surprise  by  knowing  me,  but  I  suppose  it 
must  be  due  to  Dr.  Phillips'  description  in  his  letters?" 

"Right!"  answered  Jackberry.  "Sydney  Phillips 
must  be  a  mighty  warm  friend  of  yours." 

"He  is,"  replied  the  ingenous  Harold.  "We've  be 
come  almost  like  brothers." 

"You  Westerners,  anyway,  are  heartier  in  your  feel 
ings  and  expressions  than  we  are,"  said  the  Senator. 
"Yes,  far  more  expressive.  Not  that  you'll  find  us 
cold,  I  hope ;  but  our  climate,  my  dear  sir,  is  damnably 
against  us  about  seven  months  of  the  year.  You  ar 
rived  when  Boston  is  about  at  her  best,  though  Sep 
tember  and  October  are  pretty  decent  daughters  of  the 
moon.  Ever  been  here  before?  You  shake  your  head. 
Well,  then,  we'll  have  all  the  more  to  show  you.  I'm 
happy  to  say,  I  can  steal  the  rest  of  this  afternoon 
from  my  clients — lucky  clients,  if  a  rapacious  lawyer 
doesn't  steal  more,  ha  !  ha !" 

He  laughed  merrily,  took  up  his  telephone  and  called 
out,  in  a  second :  "Please  have  my  car — the  racer — 
sent  round  at  once !"  Then  turning  to  Harold :  "I 
take  it  you  may  have  called  on  me  first,  so  I'm  going 
to  steal  a  march  on  my  friend  Calvin  Winn  and  take 
you  sight-seeing  all  by  myself.  Or  shall  I  relent  and 
give  him  a  chance  to  companion  us?" 

Pleased  with  the  Senator's  breeziness,  which  seemed 
to  have  something  western  about  it,  Harold  replied  in 
like  vein. 


THE  SPIDERS  AND  THE  FLY  71 

"Suppose  you  relent,"  said  he.  "Else  you'll  be  mak 
ing  me  feel  as  if  I  were  being  monopolized.  Besides,  I 
can  get  quicker  acquainted  with  Boston,  and  with  you 
both,  if  I  have  two  guides  at  once." 

The  Senator  smiled  benignly,  and  made  no  shadow  of 
a  reference  to  Harold's  business.  He  was  too  shrewd  to 
broach  that  subject  yet,  or  show  the  least  eagerness 
about  it.  His  role  was  to  pose  as  the  soul  of  hospi 
tality  and  give  Harold  a  good  time  socially,  till  Harold 
should  become  impatient  and  press  the  invention  on 
him.  He  felt  no  doubt  that  Winn  would  be  shrewd 
enough  not  to  begin  business  overtures,  but  fall  in  com 
pletely  with  his  policy.  Yet  to  make  sure,  for  Jack- 
berry  was  a  very  thorough  rogue  who  never  made  a 
bad  break  when  sober,  and  very  seldom  when  drunk, 
he  said: 

"I  relent,  but  I'll  not  call  for  Mr.  Winn  over  the 
'phone.  I'll  have  a  little  joke  on  him.  We'll  auto 
round  to  his  office  and  I'll  run  up  and  bring  him  down. 
We'll  see  whether  he'll  guess,  as  I  did,  who  you  are." 

"All  right,"  agreed  Harold.  "How  are  you  betting 
on  the  result?" 

"I  wager  he  won't  call  the  turn  immediately,  though 
he  very  likely  has  had  an  even  more  accurate  descrip 
tion  of  you  than  I  have,  for  he's  a  much  older  and  closer 
friend  of  Dr.  Phillips  than  I  am.  In  fact,  I've  only  a 
friendly  acquaintance  of  a  few  years'  reckoning  with 
Phillips ;  and  though  I've  attended  professionally  a 
couple  of  smallish  cases  for  him,  I  don't  really  believe 
I've  had  the  pleasure  of  more  than  a  dozen  hours,  all 
told,  in  his  society.  Yet  we  seemed  to  understand  and 
appreciate  each  other  pretty  well,  the  first  time  we  met. 
You  Westerners  often  grapple  a  man  to  yourselves  at 
once." 

"That's  true,"  assented  Harold,  though  he  was  not 


72  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

yet  at  all  ready,  however  pleased,  to  grapple  the  volu 
ble  Jackberry.  He  had  come  to  grapple  with  him,  in 
stead. 

The  Senator  came  down  so  quickly  from  Winn's  of 
fice,  escorting  that  ruddy,  well-groomed  and  prepos 
sessing  personage,  that  no  one  could  possibly  have  sus 
pected  any  subtle  conversation  had  occurred  between 
them.  Winn,  too,  acted  well  his  role  of  surprise,  and 
then  delighted  recognition. 

"Mr.  Fitzgerald,  I'm  glad  to  meet  you,  immensely 
glad!"  he  cried,  shaking  hands  with  vehemence. 
"Senator,  this  is  one  on  me,  and  there's  no  limit,  when 
ever  you  gentlemen  say  the  word.  For  just  about  a 
minute,  I'll  own  up,  I  didn't  catch  on,  as  the  boys  say. 
How  did  you  leave  my  dear  friend,  and  yours,  too,  Dr. 
Phillips?  Well,  I  trust?" 

"Very  well,  indeed,"  answered  Harold,  "and  here's  a 
letter  to  you  I  have  delayed  presenting,  because  I 
wanted  to  get  settled  first  and  not  come  at  you  gentle 
men  like  a  cannonball." 

"This  will  keep,"  said  Winn,  thrusting  the  letter  into 
a  pocket  as  they  entered  Jackberry's  car.  "The  Doc 
tor  wrote  me  a  great  account  of  you,  and  I've  been  look 
ing  forward  to  your  coming  very  eagerly.  So  has  Mrs. 
Winn.  I  have  no  secrets  from  her.  She  bade  me  tell 
you,  at  once,  that  we  dine  always  at  six,  and  that  any 
day,  or  every  day,  there's  a  chair  for  you  at  our  table. 
I  should  insist  on  bringing  you  up  tonight,  but  I  sup 
pose  the  Senator  has  bespoken  you." 

"No,  Brother  Winn,"  put  in  Jackberry.  "I  don't 
dare  bring  up  any  guest  without  giving  my  good  lady 
warning  in  plenty  of  time.  I  haven't  got  my  wife  as 
well-trained  as  yours." 

"I'm  glad  Mrs.  Winn  didn't  hear  that  speech!  It 
would  have  cost  me  a  new  gown,  P.D.Q.,"  replied  Winn, 


THE  SPIDERS  AND  THE  FLY  73 

and  they  all  laughed  merrily,  as  men  will  at  the  most 
trivial  jest,  when  the  air  of  June  is  in  their  nostrils  and 
they  are  being  carried  along  swiftly  in  a  high-powered 
car.  Winn's  office  was  in  the  Tremont  Building,  and 
the  auto  had  already  reached  the  top  of  Beacon  Street 
and  was  purring  down  past  the  dome  of  gilt  beneath 
which  the  Senator  had  served  several  terms  and  several 
corporations. 

The  afternoon  passed  swiftly.  The  drive  took  in 
Cambridge  and  Brookline,  as  well  as  the  fashionable 
part  of  Boston ;  and  as  both  Harold's  guides  knew  their 
city  and  its  environs  exceedingly  well,  and  vied  with 
each  other  in  furnishing  their  guest  with  information 
and  with  anecdote,  Harold  expanded  with  delight.  He 
felt  he  had  never  passed  so  agreeable  an  afternoon. 
When  the  sun  began  to  decline,  they  were  bowling  .-  long 
Huntington  Avenue  toward  Copley  Square,  and  the 
Senator  asked  whether  he  should  drop  Harold  at  Jiis 
rooms  or  deliver  him  over  to  Winn  to  be  taken  home 
for  dinner. 

"We're  late  for  that,  tonight,"  said  Winn,  "but 
with  your  leave,  Senator,  I'll  book  him  for  dinner  to 
morrow  and  come  for  him  in  my  car.  But  before  leav 
ing  him,  there's  one  bit  of  universal  hospitality  we 
mustn't  forget,  and  as  I  remarked  at  the  start,  it's  on 
me.  I  suggest  you  take  us  over  to  the  Westminster, 
and  we'll  have  just  one  glass  of  champagne.  I  mean  I 
always  limit  myself  to  one.  You  gentlemen,  of  course, 
can  have  all  you  please." 

"One  will  do  for  me,"  said  Harold.  "I  feel  exhilar 
ated  already  with  the  air  and  the  amount  of  interesting 
information  you  both  have  so  delightfully  given  me." 

"I  think,"  remarked  the  Senator,  assuming  a  very 
grave  judicial  tone,  "that  one  bumper  apiece  for  you 
may  be  enough,  but  inasmuch  as  I  was  once  a  Senator 


74  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

of  this  Sovereign  State  and  helped  in  shaping  its  laws, 
I  should  deem  it  but  a  just  tribute  to  my  former  great 
ness,  if  I  were  permitted  to  take  two." 

They  parted,  fifteen  minutes  later,  outside  the  West 
minster,  Harold  declining  to  be  taken  back  to  his  quar 
ters,  as  he  preferred  to  walk  after  the  long,  delightful 
whirl;  had  been  "so  up  in  the  air,"  he  wanted  to  "feel 
his  feet  again." 

Senator  Jacob  Jackberry  and  Calvin  Alvin  Winn 
went  off  together,  the  Senator  having  remarked  in 
Harold's  hearing  that  he  would  drop  Winn  at  the  Back 
Bay  Station  and  then  motor  home  and  pacify  Mrs. 
Jackberry.  Just  before  they  reached  that  place,  the 
Senator  whispered: 

"Cal,  what  do  you  make  of  him?" 

"Jake,"  replied  Winn,  "in  spite  of  his  youth  and  his 
air  of  extreme  innocence,  damn  me  if  I  think  he'll  be 
easy!" 

"You're  damned  well  right!"  agreed  the  Senator. 
"We'll  have  to  play  that  fish  quite  a  while  and  very 
expertly.  Don't  let  your  wife,  from  whom  you  have  no 
secrets,  even  so  much  as  hint  at  his  invention." 

"Never  fear.  I  have  no  secrets  with  my  wife,  be 
cause  I  never  tell  her  any.  They  wouldn't  be  secrets, 
if  I  did !" 


CHAPTER  XI 


HAL,"  said  Don,  as  they  were  finishing  their  toilet, 
after  a  rather  irregular  breakfast,  "you  were  out 
late  last  night.  I'm  beginning  to  be  worried  about  your 
morals.  I  haven't  heard  a  word  about  your  great  in 
vention  for  a  week.  You  seem  to  be  doing  the  social 
stunt  exclusively — and  exclusively  of  me,  too,  more's 
the  pity,  your  first  mentor,  guide,  philosopher  and 
friend  in  Boston.  Come,  now,  give  an  account  of  your 
self!" 

"Well,  I  haven't  spoken  of  the  invention,  because  no 
body  seems  interested  enough  in  it  yet  to  have  asked 
me  a  question  about  it.  Yet  my  new  acquaintances 
appear  very  much  interested  in  me,"  replied  Harold 
with  a  simplicity  which  negatived  the  notion  of  any 
tinge  of  vanity. 

"That's  not  unnatural.  You're  a  curiosity,  Hal ; 
and  Bostonians,  like  their  prototypes,  the  ancient  Ath 
enians,  are  crazy  for  the  curious." 

"Even  supposing  I  may  be  a  novelty,"  laughed  Har 
old,  "though  I  don't  see  why,  still  it's  rather  strange 
that  neither  the  Senator  nor  Mr.  Winn  has  made  the 
slightest  reference,  yet,  to  the  serious  business  that  has 
brought  me  here.  How  do  you  account  for  that?"  A 
look  of  shrewdness  passed  over  his  candid  face.  "Are 
they  afraid  of  showing  too  much  eagerness,  and  so  are 
deliberately  waiting  for  me  to  open  up?" 

"Why,  that  might  be  the  reason  for  their  showing 

75 


76  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

you  nothing  so  far  but  social  attentions.  On  the  other 
hand,  some  Bostonians  are  peculiar  in  expecting  things 
to  be  forced  upon  their  notice.  They  fancy  slowness 
a  proof  of  dignity.  If  they  happen  to  be  millionaires, 
they  expect  new  batches  of  millions  to  be  offered  for 
their  inspection,  rejection  or  gracious  acceptance." 

"I'm  not  going  to  beg  them  to  form  my  company," 
said  Harold  sturdily.  "I  can  find  plenty  of  other  in 
vestors.  I'm  not  bound  to  them  by  any  fetters,  for  the 
hospitality  they  have  shown.  We  show  hospitality  out 
West  habitually,  without  any  thought  back  of  it." 

"True  enough !  But  don't  mount  a  high  horse,  Hal. 
They  are  pretty  good  fellows,  according  to  my  reckon 
ing,  and  you're  accredited  to  them  by  your  particular 
friend,  Dr.  Phillips.  Pessimistic  as  I  am  on  some 
points,  I  don't  let  my  pessimism  go  swivel-firing  all 
round  the  compass.  Men  have  motives  of  delicacy 
sometimes- — even  lawyers.  Possibly  from  what  your 
friend  Sydney  wrote  them  about  your  recent  great  loss, 
they're  simply  trying  to  lessen  the  sense  of  it  by  inter 
esting  your  mind  in  other  matters.  The  social  whirl  is 
not  without  its  uses." 

"I  guess  you're  right,  Don,"  cried  Harold  heartily, 
always  quick  to  regret  doing  an  injustice.  "I'm  sorry 
to  have  felt  any  irritation  at  their  not  showing  interest 
enough  in  my  invention.  I'll  bring  up  the  matter  to 
day  with  Senator  Jackberry." 

"You'll  find  them  enthusiastic  enough,  I'll  bet,  when 
you  show  that  model,  Hal.  She'll  set  'em  crazy,  take 
my  word !  I've  dreamed  about  that  beauty  twice,  be 
sides  my  waking  dreams,  since  I  first  saw  her — and  I'm 
not  given  to  raptures ;  I've  seen  too  much  of  life." 

Two  days  later,  when  Don  came  home  from  work,  he 
found  Harold  deep  in  a  book — one  from  Don's  small 
but  well-assorted  library. 


CONFIDENCES  77 

"  'Looking  Backward,'  eh?"  exclaimed  the  reporter, 
flinging  his  hat  onto  the  rack  and  settling  down,  pipe 
in  mouth,  into  a  big  rocker  by  the  window.  "Good 
stuff,  that !  Look  out,  Hal,  or  it'll  be  making  a  So 
cialist  of  you !" 

Harold  looked  up  with  a  smile. 

"The  way  things  are  going  now,  in  this  old  world 
of  ours,"  he  answered,  "I  reckon  I  shan't  need  much 
persuading.  Fact  is,  Don,  I'm  almost  there,  as  it  is." 

Don  looked  at  him  a  minute,  appraisingly. 

"Right !"  said  he,  puffing  a  volume  of  smoke.  "Don't 
know  but  I  can  shake  with  you,  on  that,  myself.  Do 
you  know,  pretty  nearly  all  the  more  intelligent  re 
porters,  and  many  of  the  editors  too,  on  the  biggest 
papers  all  over  the  country,  have  either  got  there  al 
ready,  or  are  arriving?  Oh  no,  they  don't  dare  let  it 
appear  in  their  work;  but  they're  solid,  just  the  same. 
I  know,  of  my  own  knowledge,  that  if  all  the  Socialists 
on  the  'Star'  were  to  strike,  the  paper  couldn't  issue; 
and  the  same  is  true  of  scores  of  others  I  could  mention. 
So  go  to  it,  kid !  You're  in  good  company ! 

"But,  all  that  aside,"  he  added,  "how's  the  invention 
coming  on?  Any  progress?  You  were  to  have  seen 
Jackberry  and  Winn,  today.  Anything  doing?" 

"Looks  that  way,"  answered  Harold,  laying  down  the 
immortal  masterpiece. 

"Fine !"  congratulated  the  reporter.  "I'm  guessing, 
from  the  absence  of  the  model,  you've  been  up  against 
the  millionaires.  Did  they  take  a  shine  to  it,  and  get 
away  with  it  at  once?" 

"They're  not  millionaires,  but  they're  all  right,"  an 
swered  Harold.  "I've  convinced  them  easily  enough. 
They're  going  to  find  the  money  to  start  manufacturing 
on  a  proper  scale." 

"Oh!  ho!     So  soon?     Good  work,  old  man!    Well,  I 


78  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

don't  wonder  very  much.  And  what's  the  thing  going 
to  be  incorporated  for — how  much  is  your  company  to 
be  capitalized  at?" 

"Twenty  million  dollars !" 

Don  sat  upright  in  the  rocker,  staring  out  of  the 
wreathing  smoke. 

"And  what  will  you  get  out  of  it?" 

"I  shall  hold  the  controlling  interest.  Isn't  that  a 
plenty?" 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Hal,  that  a  young  fellow 
barely  past  twenty-one  can  blow  out  of  the  blizzardy 
West  with  a  little  trifle  he's  invented,  and  get  a  dozen 
hard-shelled  capitalists  to  back  him,  for  the  only  rea 
son  that  they  love  to  see  budding  genius  patted  on  the 
back?  For  the  love  of  Mike,  tell  me  on  what  grounds 
you're  going  to  keep  the  controlling  stock?" 

Hal  flushed  indignantly. 

"By  right  of  discovery!"  he  retorted.  "It's  my  in 
vention,  isn't  it?" 

"I'm  not  disputing  Uncle  Sammy's  word ;  and  yours, 
without  your  patent,  Hal,  would  be  quite  good  enough 
for  me.  But  still,  I'm  dazed." 

"I  could  sell  it  outright,  Don,  and  get  enough  money 
to  make  me  comfortable  for  life.  But  I  want  a  great 
deal  of  money,  and  so  I  must  manufacture  these  goods, 
and  do  it  on  a  big  scale.  No  creeping,  when  one  can 
soar!  I'm  giving  these  capitalists  a  chance  to  make 
money  out  of  my  idea.  The}',  in  turn,  are  giving  me 
the  chance  to  exploit  my  invention  quickly.  It's  a  fair 
arrangement  both  ways.  But,  to  safeguard  myself, 
I've  got  to  hold  the  controlling  stock." 

"I  understand  that,  all  right,"  Don  nodded.  "I'm 
surprised  only  at  two  things,  my  bully-boy;  one  is  that 
they'd  let  you ;  t'other  is  where  in  Hell  you  got  all  your 
caution.  It  isn't  like  an  Irishman,  born  in  Yankee- 


CONFIDENCES  79 

dom." 

"My  ancestors  were  Norse,  too.    Remember  that !" 

"Yes,  I've  heard  that  the  Norse  were  the  Yankees  of 
Europe,  but  this  beats  the  Dutch.  I'll  be  damned!" 

Harold  laughed.  He  enjoyed  Don's  chaff;  it  keyed 
him  up  to  talk.  He  told  of  that  day's  interview,  re 
peating  even  his  own  exposition  of  the  model's  points, 
which  Don  had  heard  before,  and  picturing  the  factory 
with  hundreds  of  well-paid  workmen,  on  short  hours 
of  labor,  turning  out  the  machine.  Like  most  Irishmen, 
Harold  had  the  natural  gift  of  oratory ;  and  with  it  not 
only  the  egotism  of  his  race,  but  of  youth  and  of  su 
preme  success  in  sight. 

With  gesticulating  hands,  at  which  the  setting  sun 
through  the  window  pointed  a  golden  finger,  as  if  more 
in  play  than  mockery,  Harold  emphasized  his  points ; 
and  when  he  paused  for  breath  Don  said,  casting  his 
eyes  toward  the  ceiling,  as  if  he  expected  oracular  an 
swer  thence: 

"And  when  the  golden  pot  is  found  at  the  foot  of  the 
rainbow?"  His  glance  fell  down  from  the  ceiling,  quiz 
zical,  half  paternal.  Harold  winced  a  bit,  but  he  re 
plied  composedly  enough: 

"You  know,  I  guess,  what  I'm  going  to  try  to  do. 
Perhaps  I'm  not  an  out-and-out  Socialist  yet,  but  I'm 
near  enough  to  it  so  that  I  intend  to  get  a  few  things 
set  right — or  try  to — once  the  money's  mine !" 

Don  slowly  rose  and  began  to  pace  the  floor. 

"In  the  name  of  God,  Hal,  what  do  you  know  of  life 
that  you  should  try  to  solve  any  of  its  hellish  prob 
lems?" 

"I  don't  know — that  is,  not  much" — the  boy  spoke 
steadily — "but  I've  learned  that  life  has  a  thousand 
faces.  I  seem  to  have  known  this,  in  a  dim  way,  for  a 
long,  long  time.  I  can't  explain  it  clearly ;  it's  in  here." 


80 


He  touched  his  breast.  His  glance  had  grown  remote. 
A  half  rapt,  half  consecrated,  look  came  over  him. 
"And  every  day  the  thousand  pleading  faces  are — 
staring  at  me  harder." 

Don  felt  the  old  tightening  in  his  throat,  as  he  an 
swered  : 

"You  never  were  more  right,  Hal,  and  I'm  familiar 
with  every  damned  one  of  the  thousand !"  He  paused ; 
then  broke  out  again  with  some  vehemence:  "When  I 
was  nine  years  old,  my  mother  died.  My  father  made 
a  bad  mess  of  it,  with  drink.  An  agent  for  a  Children's 
Home  got  hold  of  me ;  his  name  was  Martin — Reverend 
Wallace  Martin.  He  found  me  a  home  and  they  shipped 
me  out  West.  I  can  remember  as  if  it  were  yesterday. 
I  can  remember  the  Reverend  Martin  telling  a  news 
paper  man  about  me.  He  didn't  know  I  was  taking  in 
every  word.  He  said  he  wanted  a  home  for  a  refined, 
dark-haired,  brown-eyed  lad  who'd  be  a  prize  for  some 
one  that  needed  something  to  live  for.  And  the  news 
paper  man  wrote  it  up.  I've  read  that  clipping  almost 
to  a  frazzle— the  dominie  gave  it  to  me  to  keep  after 
wards." 

Don  drew  from  his  pocket  a  frayed,  folded  clipping 
and  handed  it  to  Harold,  who  read  aloud: 

"  'The  boy  had  a  Methodist  preacher  for  a  grand 
father.  There  is  a  breadth  between  the  little  lad's  eyes, 
and  a  gentle,  subdued  air  of  strength  about  him  that — • 
well,  he  may  make  a  Dwight  Moody  or  a  George  Pea- 
body.  As  he  stood  timid  and  curious,  all  the  clothes 
he  owns  on  his  little  back,  his  restless  eyes  following 
the  kind  man  who  had  him  in  charge — his  only  friend — 
he  seemed  strangely  helpless,  yet  singularly  poten 
tial!'" 

"That  was  me,  Hal,  twenty-five  years  ago — 'singu 
larly  potential !'  Merciful  God,  that  was  me " 


CONFIDENCES  81 

The  wretchedness,  the  horror  in  Don's  last  sentence 
made  Harold  shudder. 

Presently  Brush  ceased  his  restless  pacing  and  seem 
ingly  forgot  his  companion.  He  sat  down,  bowing  his 
head  into  his  hands.  After  a  while  he  rose  and  talked 

as  he  paced  the  room  again.  "And  yet — and  yet ," 

he  said  aloud,  musingly,  "homeless  boys  are  a  better  in 
vestment  than  Steel  Common  at  nine,  which  has  gone  to 
thirty-four.  A  boy,  loved  and  trained,  will  return  six 
per  cent,  steadily,  and  now  and  then  one  shakes  the 
world.  For,  of  all  the  potential,  impressive,  majestic 
things  on  earth,  none  compares  with  the  pure,  penetrat 
ing,  wise,  wondering  look  in  the  eyes  of  a  boy  of  nine." 

"Were  they — these  people — good  to  you?"  Harold 
put  this  hesitatingly,  not  sure  of  his  ground. 

Brush  looked  into  space  a  moment. 

"Heavenly  good !"  he  said  with  a  heavy  sigh.  "I 
remember  one  year  of  love  and  home,  then — chaos — 
Hell!"  He  shivered. 

"It  was  in  Illinois,  somewhere.  There  came  an  epi 
demic,  and  my  foster  parents  died  within  a  few  hours 
of  each  other.  For  me  this  loss  of  a  second  mother, 
and  of  a  father  just  as  kind,  was  one  of  those  unfortu 
nate  complete  overturns  that  hit  so  many  lives.  I 
hadn't  been  legally  adopted  as  yet — and  there  was  a 
bit  of  property  left,  enough  to  excite  the  greed  of  dis 
tant  kin.  I  was  hustled  out  of  the  way  and  became  a 
State  charge.  State  institutions  are  not  exactly  homes. 
They  ought  to  be  doubly  beautiful  homes  for  mother 
less  and  fatherless  children.  But  they're  not.  I  had 
brains  enough  to  understand  Institutions  at  once.  I 
ran  away — from  a  prison." 

Don  fell  still  suddenly  and  stared  moodily  at  his 
pipe.  The  silence  oppressed  Harold. 

"What  adventures  you  must  have  had !" 


82  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

"I  did;  but  I  don't  remember  them  definitely.  I  just 
survived,  somehow,  till  at  fifteen  I  seemed  to  have  the 
wisdom  of  a  tired,  old  man.  There  weren't  many  of 
life's  sordid  places  I  didn't  know.  I  saw,  I  pondered. 
Young  as  I  was,  I  formed  the  opinion  that  the  fellow 
who  works  with  his  hands  has  no  show  in  'My  Country 
'tis  of  Thee,  Sweet  Land  of  Liberty.' 

"So  I  attended  night  school,"  Don  continued,  after 
a  pause.  "One  day  I  found  myself  a  reporter  on  a 
metropolitan  newspaper.  Since  then" — Don's  tone 
changed  abruptly  to  one  of  banter — "since  then,  my 
boy,  I've  played  dice  with  the  devil  under  every  sun 
in  Christendom."  He  struck  a  match  and  relit  his 
pipe.  "Tomorrow  night,  Hal,  we'll  go  hear  Dr. 
Clark ". 

"Dr.  Clark?" — Harold  knitted  his  brows,  trying 
to  recall  mention  of  any  such  person.  "Who —  — ?"  he 
began. 

Don's  eyes  had  closed.  He  waved  a  nonchalant  hand, 
then  answered  in  a  slow,  monotonous  voice,  as  if  in 
deep  musing. 

"Dr.  George  B.  Clark,  of  Boston,  at  Faneuil  Hall,  in 
lecture.  He's  another  Utopian,  trying  to  set  a  crazy 
universe  right.  Dr.  Clark,  Wendell  Phillips,  Edward 
Bellamy,  Laurence  Gronland — Dreamers— Reformers — 
Fanatics — Ecstatics — I've  summered  and  wintered  with 
a  raft  of  'em." 

"And  you  really  like  them,  Don,  whatever  your  pessi 
mism  says.  I  know  you  do !" 

"Oh !  yes,  they're  likable  enough  personally,  in  spite 
of  being  taboo,  while  they're  alive." 

"Is  Dr.  Clark  taboo?" 

"TABOO,  with  capital  letters  !"  replied  Don.  "Capi 
talistic  letters,  my  boy !  But  the  Doctor's  popular 
enough  with  the  masses ;  ought  to  be,  for  he's  done  so 


CONFIDENCES  83 

many  practical  things  for  them,  collectively  and  indi 
vidually  too,  whenever  he's  got  a  chance.  Aside  from 
that,  he's  the  most  talked  about,  abused  and  hated  So 
cialist  in  New  England." 

"Too  bad  !     Of  course,  he  doesn't  deserve  it !" 

"Oh,  bless  your  soul,  yes  he  does !  He's  earned  it ; 
earned  the  enmity  of  every  hypocrite  and  charlatan  in 
the  State.  He's  Chief  Surgeon  of  a  big  hospital  here. 
He's  telling  things,  and  that's  the  crime  of  crimes,  un 
der  Capitalism !" 

"Why  shouldn't  he?  Shouldn't  they  be  told,  and 
stopped?" 

"Oh,  no !  that  would  disturb  the  equilibrium  of  the 
'established  ordure,'  as  a  witty  friend  of  mine  calls  it. 
Institutions,  particularly  institutions  in  Puritan  com 
munities,  are  sacred  things — things  holier  than 
churches,  by  a  Hell  of  a  sight !" 

"Don,  you're  blasphemous !" 

"All  right.  I  caught  it  from  him,  then.  Preachers 
thunder  at  him  from  their  easy  pulpits ;  capitalists 
dub  him  crazy,  a  crank,  an  agitator,  an  anarchist — 
but  the  Doc  goes  right  on.  He  isn't  the  kind  that  will 
stay  squelched.  Every  wire  that  can  be  pulled  to  elec 
trocute  him,  and  get  him  quietly  done  up  and  done  for, 
sis  being  pulled.  No  doubt,  they'll  get  him  yet;  and 
that's  exactly  what  they'll  do  to  you,  some  fine  day,  my 
boy,  so  chuck  the  job!" 

"What  job  do  you  mean?" 

"Give  up  your  foolish  notions  of  trying  to  better 
things ;  fall  decently  in  love  with  a  nice  girl,  marry  her, 
but  not  all  her  folks,  and  let  this  worst  of  all  possible 
worlds  work  out  its  own  salvation — or  its  most  damna 
bly  deserved  damnation!  But  there !"  Don 

fanned  himself  with  a  paper.  "Why  the  devil  should  I 
heat  myself  to  give  advice,  on  such  a  warm  night? 


84  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

Things  will  adjust  themselves  without  me.  The  hour 
for  the  woman  in  your  life  hasn't  struck,  Hal.  When 
it  does —  — !"  He  puffed  mightily  at  his  pipe. 
Harold  pondered  a  moment,  then  answered : 
"I  haven't  seen  her  yet,  or  even  her  suggestion. 
I've  ceased  to  wonder  if  I  ever  shall.  Perhaps, 
Don —  "  he  smiled  so  seriously  that  Brush  felt  a  lump 
in  his  throat — "perhaps,  the  thousand  suffering  faces 
will  forever  shut  a  special  one  from  me.  Some  men 
are  better  all  alone.  You  have  no  wife ;  and  you  don't 
seem  to  want  one." 

"I  had  one — that  one  with  the  fancy  name !" 
"The  one  I  met,  Don?     Yetive  Soule?" 
"Yes.     I'll  tell  you  all  about  her   sometime — some 
time  when  I  can  do  so  easily.     Now  let's  fire  the  tragic 
and  feminine   out  the  window,   and  go  somewhere  for 
supper — my  treat.      Then  I  must  report  at  the  office 
and  get  instructions.     Ought  to  have  gone  up  before, 
but  I'm  dog-tired.     My  news  '11  keep  anyway ;  for  it's 
all  in  my  keeping." 


CHAPTER    XII 

Dr.  George  Rends  the  Veil 

THE  audience  drawn  to  hear  Dr.  George  B.  Clark, 
the  night  when  Don  and  Harold  went  to  his 
Faneuil  Hall  speech,  was  large  and  enthusiastic.  It 
embraced  many  and  divers  elements.  Doubters  were 
there ;  disbelievers  in  the  rights  of  man  had  come ; 
individual  capitalists,  out  of  curiosity,  and  hireling 
spies  of  Capitalism  to  take  notice  and  make  critical 
reports,  not  only  of  the  effect  of  the  speaker's  ha 
rangue,  but  also  of  the  men  and  women  of  the  work 
ing  class  there  present,  so  their  employers  might 
"keep  tabs"  on  them  and  blacklist  them,  if  expedient. 

Old  men  were  there  whose  looks  said  that  the  things 
of  this  world  were  not  like  to  interest  or  to  trouble 
them  much  longer.  Old  women,  too,  some  of  whom 
in  faraway  youth  must  have  been  comely,  and  whose 
countenances  now,  like  those  of  some  of  the  old  men, 
caught  something  of  the  light  of  vanished  youth  from 
the  radiation  of  the  speaker.  Young  girls,  a  few 
were  there — an  eager  wistfulness  on  their  faces.  An 
ethnologist,  glancing  over  that  gathering,  would  have 
picked  out  at  once  a  dozen  or  more  nationalities. 

The  speaker  himself  was  a  blend  of  Celt  and  Saxon, 
strong  child  of  an  English  mother  and  Irish  father. 
Somewhat  above  the  medium  height,  his  figure  had 
such  fine  proportions  that  even  our  absurd  modern 
garb  could  not  entirely  hide  its  elegance.  His  head 
was  possibly  a  little  too  large  for  exact  conformity 

85 


86  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

with  his  body — "a  noble  fault,"  as  Lord  Lytton  has 
remarked.  The  temples  were  both  broad  and  high, 
like  Poe's ;  the  chin  was  also  broad,  making  the  whole 
face  indicate  power;  spell  restless,  invincible  energy. 
His  hair,  once  dark  enough  to  be  called  black,  was 
considerably  grizzled,  and  thus  perhaps  made  more 
pleasant  to  the  eye.  His  eyes  were  large  and  singularly 
clear,  a  true  Irish  blue. 

The  contrast  made  by  these  Celtic  eyes  with  the 
dark  hair  and  the  healthy  pink  of  his  complexion  was 
very  attractive.  His  nose  was  rather  short,  sharp- 
pointed  and  straight,  seeming  to  suggest  pugnacity. 
His  teeth  flashed,  as  he  spoke. 

Handsome  and  virile,  as  he  stood  there  at  perfect 
ease,  he  seemed  the  kind  of  natural  physician  whose 
very  presence  radiates  health. 

For  a  moment  after  the  chairman's  introduction 
he  stood  considering  the  audience.  Then,  in  even  and 
well-modulated  tones,  he  began: 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  fellow-citizens,  fellow-think 
ers  !  Some  of  you  know  me  by  this  time.  I  am  an 
Agitator,  a  Fanatic,  a  Crank,  according  to  the  news 
papers,  and,  honor  bright,  I'm  profoundly  proud  of 

it.  Don't  forget  to  put  that  down "  he  looked 

genially  toward  the  reporters'  table  with  a  smile,  as 
if  asking  a  favor,  "young  gentlemen  of  the  press !  I'm 
glad  to  see  such  a  goodly  band  of  reporters  here  in 
Faneuil  Hall.  Some  of  the  sacred  spirit  of  this  Ros 
trum  of  Agitators  may  get  into  you,  through  your 
copy,  and  possibly  into  the  papers  you  represent — 
all  of  them  either  juvenile  or  senile  servitors  of  Capi 
talism. 

"I  intend  to  call  your  attention  chiefly  to  one  of 
the  many  great  abuses  that  have  crept  into  power  and 
that  flourish  in  our  community ;  but  before  I  reach  it, 


DR.  GEORGE  RENDS  THE  VEIL          87 

and  afterward,  I  may  fire  thoughts  in  all  directions 
in  the  hope  that  some  of  them  may  hit  something — 
even  perhaps  hit  a  reporter." 

"Hit  the  press,  Doc,  hit  the  press !"  sounded  a  voice 
from  the  gallery. 

"In  so  far  as  the  press  represents  our  so-called 
civilization,  I  pray  for  power  to  hit  it,  as  my  friendly 
prompter  suggests,"  answered  Clark.  "But  the  press 
isn't  quite  so  bad  as  it  might  be ;  it  hasn't  yet  suggested 
that  I  should  be  arrested." 

"They  can't  muzzle  you,  Doc.  Bad  cess  to  'em!" 
shouted  an  Irish  voice. 

"Terence,  if  the  audience  prefers,  I'll  step  down 
from  this  platform,  and  you  shall  step  up !" 

Murmurs  of  remonstrance  rose  from  the  crowd. 

"Sorra  a  wurrud  will  I  spake  more ;  I'll  kape  quiet, 
avcn  if  I  bust !" 

"Fellow  thinkers,  do  you  realize  that  we  are  on 
the  eve  of  a  Revolution?  Our  institutions  have  be 
come  rank;  they  smell  to  Heaven;  they  are  a  stench 
in  the  nostrils  of  God. 

"And  why?  Because  that  liberty  for  which  Patrick 
Henry  lifted  up  his  voice  and  for  which  Nathan  Hale 
laid  down  his  life,  that  liberty  which  our  forefathers 
achieved,  has  degenerated  into  an  industrial  tyranny, 
into  a  domestic  despotism,  a  wage-slavery,  more  brutal 
and  more  brutalizing  than  that  which  the  narrow- 
minded  and  blood-thirsty  Briton  of  yore  sought  to  im 
pose  on  England's  colonies  and  on  all  weaker  races. 
Why,  that  poor  old  stupid  King,  George  III,  and  his 
advisory  malefactor,  Lord  Bute,  in  their  worst  mo 
ments  were  not  half  so  great  oppressors  of  the  weak  as 
our  Rockefeller,  our  Morgan,  and  all  that  pirate  tribe. 
The  trouble  is,  my  friends,  we  are  not  civilized. 

"Our   editors,   the   men   who   play  with   words,   our 


88  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

preachers  who  try  to  interpret  comfortably  the  vague 
dreams  of  dead  men  about  a  future  world,  while  blink 
ing  the  facts  of  this  one,  our  professors  who  gravely 
pretend  to  extend  the  realm  of  human  knowledge  by 
means  of  the  differential  calculus,  Greek  roots  and 
other  grateful  and  comforting  data,  are  fond  of  harp 
ing  on  the  glories  of  civilization. 

"But  our  civilization,  a  civilization  of  gold  and 
blood,  is  only  barbarism  after  all,  barbarism  canned 
and  chemicalized  with  benzoate  of  soda,  a  preservative 
and  a  disguiser  of  its  rotten  fruit. 

"Whenever  a  state  pats  itself  on  the  back  and  says : 
'I  am  civilized,'  that  state  is  a  liar  and  the  truth  is 
not  in  it.  That's  why  Agitators  are  a  necessity  for  the 
salvation  of  a  state ;  that's  why  I'm  a  necessity,  a 
severe  necessity,  my  friends." 

"G'land,  it's  a  luxury  ye  are,  Doc,  whin  ye're 
spakin' !" 

"Terence,  again !  To  the  lamp-post  with  Terence !" 
cried  another  voice. 

"Can't  the  lubber  stow  his  gab?"  growled  a  sailor- 
looking  fellow. 

"It's  more  light  I'd  be  givin'  on  a  lamp-post  than 
a  dozen  of  yees !  G'wan,  Doc !  I'm  only  tryin'  to 
encourage  ye !"  shouted  the  Celt. 

"Thanks !  I  need  it,  when  I  look  around  me  on 
the  Massachusetts  of  today.  This  is  the  State  and 
the  very  place  where  Phillips  thundered  against  black 
slavery  in  the  South.  Upon  this  very  platform  where 
now  I  stand,  he  leaped  like  young  Apollo  smiting  the 
great  Python,  with  a  shaft  of  light  divine,  and  smote 
into  silence  the  smooth  Attorney-General,  James  Treco- 
thick  Austin,  who  sought  with  legal  sophistries  to 
temporize  and  obscure  a  profound — an  eternal  issue. 

"And  yet  in  this  Commonwealth,  not  long  ago,  the 


DR.  GEORGE  RENDS  THE  VEIL          89 

minions  of  Capital  tried  to  ravish  from  parents,  be 
cause  those  parents  were  striking  for  a  paltry  raise 
of  a  paltry  wage,  the  right,  the  liberty,  of  sending 
their  little  children  away  to  be  better  cared  for  dur 
ing  the  industrial  battle. 

"Men  and  women  of  Massachusetts,  have  you  al 
ready  forgotten  that? — You  must  not  forget  it! 

"There's  a  slang  phrase  we  have  heard — 'going  the 
limit.'  Capitalism  went  the  limit  to  lunacy,  surely, 
when  it  tried  that !  Even  the  New  York  Anvil,  the 
ablest  special  deputy  the  Devil  ever  had  on  earth,  a 
paper  edited  for  many  years  by  that  saddest  of  all 
moral  spectacles,  a  Socialist  fallen,  took  exception  to 
that  high-handed,  blind-minded  outrage. 

"The  arrest  and  jailing  of  Ettor,  the  Agitator,  and 
the  trampling  by  a  hireling  judge  on  the  right  of 
habeas  corpus,  did  not  jar  the  editorial  desk  of  the 
New  York  Anvil;  but  the  attempted  detention  of  the 
little  children  did.  For  that  was  a  jackal  crime  of 
capital,  an  outrage  such  as  only  Revolution  can  wipe 
away! 

"I'm  going  to  say  just  a  few  more  words  on  Law 
rence,  in  the  fond  hope  that  a  warrant  may  be  issued 
against  me  for  contempt  of  court.  I've  so  much  con 
tempt  for  this  particular  court,  I  think  I  ought  to 
be  arrested  for  it.  Here  is  a  little  item: 


"  'Breen  is  Fined  $500. 

Member  of  Lawrence  School  Board  Pays 

Without    Protest     in     Dynamite    "Plant" 

Case.' " 

"  'In  the  Superior  Court  this  afternoon,  Justice  Brown 
presiding,  John  J.  Breen,  of  Lawrence,  was  fined  $500  for 
"planting"  dynamite  in  Lawrence,  Jan.  19,  1912. 


90  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

"  'Breen,  who  is  a  member  of  the  Board  of  Education  of 
Lawrence,  was  indicted  on  three  counts  for  conspiracy  by 
the  Essex  County  Grand  Jury.  He  paid  the  fine  without 
protest.  Information  submitted  to  the  police  by  Breen,  in 
January,  was  to  the  effect  that  dynamite  was  planted  in  a 
cobbler's  shop  adjoining  a  printing  establishment  that 
Joseph  J.  Ettor  frequented,  in  a  tailor  shop  at  294  Oak  St., 
Lawrence,  and  in  a  sandbank,  joining  a  cemetery  near  the 
Arlington  Mills  in  Lawrence.  Sticks  of  dynamite  were 
found  at  these  places.' 


"Just  think  of  that,  will  you? 

"John  J.  Breen  is  fined  only  $500,  which  he  paid 
without  protest,  for  planting  dynamite  with  a  design 
to  injure  the  cause  of  the  strikers  by  making  it  seem 
they  had  dynamite  on  hand  to  use  against  their  Czars, 
the  mill-owners.  Only  a  fine  of  $500,  for  this  mem 
ber  of  the  Lawrence  Board  of  Education,  instead  of 
a  long  term  in  jail!  And  nothing  done  to  the  men 
higher  up,  who  proposed  the  hellish  job  to  him  and 
found  him  a  ready  tool!  I  should  be  slandering  the 
name  of  skunk  by  applying  it  to  a  creature  who,  like 
John  J.  Breen,  would  so  foully  conspire  against  the 
sacred  cause  of  Labor,  the  cause  of  All  Mankind,  as 
to  plant  sticks  of  dynamite !  Fellow-thinkers,  it  has 
always  been  deemed  a  peculiarly  base  crime,  to  be  a 
traitor  to  one's  country.  But  isn't  it  a  far  greater, 
far  baser  crime,  to  be  a  traitor  to  mankind,  a  traitor 
to  tbe  Race?" 

"You  ban  right,  Doctor !"  roared  a  big  Swede,  shak 
ing  his  leonine  head. 

"Hurroo !"  yelled  Terence.  "The  Irish  f oriver ! 
They  can't  down  us,  so  long  as  ye're  wan  of  us,  Doc- 
ther !" 

An  uplift  of  laughter  suddenly  fell  to  silence  tense, 


DR.  GEORGE  RENDS  THE  VEIL          91 

expectant.  Then  Dr.  Clark  made  the  first  particu 
larly  noticeable  gesture  in  his  deliverance.  He  swayed 
a  little  backward  with  his  arms  at  full  stretch,  and 
cried  in  thrilling  low  tones : 

"How   long   shall  Labor   be   nailed   to    the   cross?" 

He  was  answered  not  by  words,  but  by  a  long  swell 
ing  murmur  from  the  audience  like  that  of  an  ocean- 
roller  just  before  it  dashes  itself  to  foam. 

"The  Revolution,  thank  God!  is  nearer  than  some 
men  think.  Why  so?  Because  conditions  are  near 
their  worst.  And  a  cowardly  pulpit,  a  truckling  press, 
a  greedy  few,  are  blindly  speeding  it  on.  Wendell 
Phillips,  the  orator,  the  statesman,  the  political  seer, 
said  many  gloriously  true  things.  One  of  them  was 
this :  'The  great  question  of  the  future  is  Money 
against  Legislation.  You  and  I  shall  be  in  our  graves 
before  that  battle  is  ended,  and  unless  our  children 
have  more  courage  and  patience  than  saved  this  coun 
try  from  slavery,  republican  institutions  will  go  down 
before  monied  corporations.'  The  corporations  of 
America  mean  to  govern.  Unless  some  power  more 
radical  than  ordinary  politics  is  found,  govern  they 
inevitably  will!  The  only  hope  of  any  effectual  grap 
ple  with  the  danger  lies  in  rousing  the  masses  whose 
interests  lie  permanently  in  the  opposite  direction. 

"Meantime,  above  the  earthquake  now  in  birth- 
pangs,  unheeding  the  object-lessons  of  history — just 
as  they  did  in  France  before  that  glorious  flood  arose 
in  '93 — the  idle  rich  continue  to  entertain,  to  marry 
their  daughters  into  nobility  or  semi-royalty,  and  to 
revel  in  their  gorgeous  villas,  while  the  children  in 
the  mills,  the  women  in  the  factories  and  the  sweat 
shops,  ay,  even  the  childing  women,  and  the  men,  our 
brother  men,  in  every  field  of  labor,  are  toiling  with 
sallow  faces,  tired  brains  and  starving  bodies,  in  order 


92  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

that  the  rich,  their  economic  masters  and  mistresses, 
may  idle  on  dividends  and  addle  their  pates  with  cham 
pagne  !" 

Harold  could  hardly  help  fancying  that  the  speaker's 
eye  was  upon  him.  So  personal  was  the  appeal  of 
this  natural  orator  that  every  person  in  his  audiences 
was  apt  to  feel  this  touch  of  direct  appeal. 

"But  I  do  not  care  to  denounce  the  idle  rich,"  con 
tinued  Clark.  "Their  lives,  as  pictured  in  the  press, 
denounce  them  sufficiently !" 

The  beautiful,  strong  voice  rolled  out  like  an  evan 
gel.  Harold  began  to  feel  electrified.  Dimly,  and  as  if 
it  came  from  a  place  afar,  from  an  abyss  of  horror,  he 
heard  the  orator's  voice  describing  things  he  prayed 
could  not  be  true.  He  heard  it  saying  solemnly  that 
there  were  even  worse  slaves  than  the  wage-earners 
in  Massachusetts ;  men  and  women  in  places  fouler 
than  prisons,  fettered  by  iron  circumstances,  crying  out 
to  be  freed,  and  dying  hideous  deaths  whose  causes 
were  hushed  up.  It  could  not  be  true — no,  no — a  thou 
sand  times  no !  The  speaker  must  be  lying — or  be 
mad.  Yet  how  calmly,  with  what  noble  indignation 
held  in  leash,  the  denouncer  of  our  sham  democracy 
was  still  proceeding! 

"Am  I  really  telling  you  any  new  thing  when  I 
say  there  are  hundreds  of  persons  imprisoned  in  this 
Commonwealth  who  are  just  as  sane  as  you  are,  and 
have  never  been  insane ;  hundreds  in  our  State  insti 
tutions  who  are  not  of  disordered  brain,  who  can 
talk  as  coherently  as  I  can,  who  ask  only  to  be  heard — 
who  are  pleading — pleading  in  vain?  What  is  the 
sum  and  essence  of  their  plea? 

"This!  'We  are  entitled  to  a  trial  by  jury,  but  are 
denied  it.  Give  us  a  chance  to  be  heard,  and  we  will 
prove  our  sanity,  and  will  startle  humanity  by  our 


DR.  GEORGE  RENDS  THE  VEIL          93 

revelations.  We  will  show  that  the  Constitution  of 
these  United  States  is  being  violated  in  this,  and  no 
doubt,  in  every  commonwealth  of  the  Union.  We  are 
deprived  of  our  liberty  without  due  process  of  law. 
We  are  beaten  and  some  of  us  are  murdered  by  brutal 
attendants.  Foul  lusts  are  gratified  on  our  bodies, 
our  bodies  which,  according  to  Holy  Writ,  were  meant 
to  be  temples  of  the  Living  God.  Give  us  but  one,  one 
chance  to  speak!' 

"Do  you  think  I  am  exaggerating?"  cried  the  Doctor, 
suddenly  shaking  his  fist  on  high.  Harold  drew  back, 
as  if  it  were  at  himself.  "Listen  closer !  One  of  the 
attendants  at  Bridgewater,  while  drunk,  came  one 
night  last  year  to  a  hotel  where  a  friend  of  mine  was 
stopping,  and  in  a  fit  of  remorse  accused  himself  of 
helping  to  kill  a  lunatic  up  there ;  said  it  was  his  first 
go  at  the  game,  but  he  'supposed  he'd  get  used  to  it  in 
time.'  Am  I  lying?  You  know  I'm  not! 

"Even  lunatics,  proven  lunatics,  are  entitled  to  life, 
and  the  very  kindest  treatment  for  their  hapless  case. 
Who  dare  deny  me  that?  And  some  forms  of  lunacy 
are  curable,  easily  curable,  under  proper  conditions. 
But  what  about  those  who  are  sane,  yet  herded  with 
the  mad  and  under  such  daily,  hourly,  momently  pres 
sure  of  the  horror,  that  they  may  themselves  go  mad 
from  their  surroundings,  from  their  loss  of  liberty, 
and  possibly  from  a  contagion  or  infection  of  in 
sanity? 

"Among  the  really  lunatic  in  our  State  Institutions 
are  many  kinds  of  persons:  philosophers  adjudged  in 
sane  for  proclaiming  advanced  ideas ;  inventors"- 
Harold  did  not  need  the  nudge  Don  gave  him  at  this 
point ;  perhaps  failed  even  to  notice  it — "who  have  been 
declared  deranged  and  are  incarcerated  in  order  that 
the  product  of  their  genius  may  be  stolen  from  them ; 


94  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

alcoholic  weaklings ;  drug-slaves,  who  have  been  seized 
and  locked  up  for  life,  yet  who  are,  as  even  a  half- 
fledged  physician  could  prove  to  you,  but  temporarily 
unbalanced,  and  to  whom  a  few  months  in  a  true  hos 
pital  would  restore  normal  mentality,  perhaps  never 
more  to  be  risked  again  by  them  on  rum  or  morphine. 

"There,  too,  are  wives  conspired  against  by  their 
husbands  who  have  not  dared  to  seek  separation 
through  the  divorce  courts ;  and  husbands,  victims  of 
their  vicious  wives,  who  have  sought  and  found  more 
strenuous  'affinities' — with  more  money  to  spend  on 
the  extravagant  whims  of  these  daughters  of  the  devil. 
My  friends,  there  is  a  chivalry  that's  false,  a  chivalry 
that  makes-believe  all  women  should  be  ranked  as 
angels.  The  ugly  truth  is,  there  are  plenty  of  bad 
wives  as  well  as  bad  husbands ;  and  I  hold  no  brief 
for  men,  but  for  Man. 

"Why,  I  once  knew  a  wife  so  depraved — my  friend 
the  late  Dr.  Page  showed  me  proofs  in  her  own  hand 
writing — that  she  could  not  conceal  her  eagerness  to 
get  rid  of  her  husband  in  order  that  she  might  marry 
a  youngster.  She  had  grave  clothes  made  for  her  hus 
band  in  advance;  told  Dr.  Page  that  he  was  likely  to 
die  suddenly  with  Bright's  disease,  and  asked  my  medi 
cal  brother  whether  he  couldn't  be  ready  to  come  out 
instantly  at  a  telephone  call,  when  her  husband  was 
at  his  last  gasp  with  drink,  and  give  her  a  medical 
certificate  of  the  cause  of  death  so  as  to  avoid  publicity 
and  scandal.  Dr.  Page  demurred  at  such  premeditate 
precipitancy;  but  the  woman  actually  did  telephone 
for  him  to  come,  declaring  her  husband  was  on  the 
point  of  alcoholic  dissolution,  and  the  Doctor  went. 
He  found  the  man  who  was  to  die  right  then,  not 
drunk,  but  suspiciously  sick,  and  the  solicitous  wife 
reeling  about  the  house,  inflamed  with  drink.  In  her 


DR.  GEORGE  RENDS  THE  VEIL          95 

closet  he  saw  two  demijohns.  He  sampled  each.  She 
had  ammunitioned  herself  with  whiskey  against  a  siege 
of  wifely  grief. 

"In  the  institutions  of  this  State  are  some  persons 
of  wealth  held  prisoners  for  life  by  guardians,  trus 
tees  and  conservators  who  profit  by  their  wards'  hav 
ing  been  declared  irresponsible.  There,  too,  are  old 
men  and  women  with  failing  faculties,  not  demented, 
but  who  simply,  because  found  encumbrances,  have 
been  got  rid  of  and  entrusted  to  the  tender  mercies  of 
asylum  attendants,  frequently  hyenas  in  human  form. 

"Insanity  certainly  is,  and  has  been  for  a  long 
time,  curable.  These  facts  I  have  been  giving  you 
are  just  a  few  known  by  jurists,  physicians,  clergymen, 
kinsfolks,  friends.  Investigation  has  proven  these  out 
rages.  The  whole  institutional  scheme  is  rotten.  The 
salaries  paid  to  its  officials  do  not  ensure  intellectual 
competence.  The  wages  paid  for  attendants  are  so 
low  that  the  better  class  of  men  and  women,  as  a  rule, 
are  not  attracted  by  them,  and  the  roughs  and  toughs 
get  the  jobs.  The  time  of  some  of  the  officials  is  con 
sumed  in  reading,  censoring,  or  suppressing  entirely 
the  letters  which  the  hapless  insane  and  the  still  more 
wretched  sane  write  to  their  friends,  or  supposed 
friends,  in  the  hope  of  getting  help  from  the  outer 
world. 

"Nor  is  this  true  alone  of  our  asylums.  Our  insti 
tutions  of  related  kinds  are  equally  vile.  Our  Concord 
Reformatory  for  Boys  is  a  worse  B as  tile  than  Charles- 
town  State  Prison,  a  training  school  for  criminality 
unexcelled  and  unparalleled.  Investigation  has  estab 
lished  this,  and  already  a  society  of  earnest  women 
and  men  is  organizing  to  take  up  the  cause  of  those  in 
oppressed  detention.  But  we  Socialists,  my  friends, 
have  little  use  for  patch-work  reforms.  We  know  that 


96  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

a  system  maintaining  even  for  a  day  such  hells,  and 
breeding  year  by  year  such  ghastly  wrongs,  must  be 
fundamentally  wrong. 

"It  is  argued  by  some  that  the  world  is  becoming 
better,  though  admittedly  very  slowly.  Yet  behold ! 
This  new  century  is  wearing  the  brand  of  a  century 
better  forgotten.  Sorrow  and  suffering,  the  evil  shafts 
of  corruption  in  every  department  of  the  nation, 
strike  hardest  the  victims  of  our  public  institutions. 
These  victims  are  submerged  in  the  deepest  pits  of  our 
social  abyss. 

"Tramp,  hobo,  bum,  harlot,  all  different  types  of 
humanity,  live  in  the  open  till  rounded  up  by  the  iron 
hand  of  law  and  statistically  branded.  Their  next 
step  is  ever  down ;  and  when  they  reach  the  last  rung  of 
the  ladder  from  which  their  predecessors  have  fallen, 
they  cling,  and  glaring  up  with  faces  writhing  in 
despair,  they  make  their  final  drop  into  the  social  pit. 

"Look  at  that  class  in  our  asylums.  It  seems  well- 
nigh  impossible  to  believe  that  they  were  once  beauti 
ful  children  who  might,  under  fair  conditions,  have 
evolved  into  men  and  women  of  high  hopes  and  aspira 
tions,  but  who  now  are  become  raving  maniacs  or  im 
becile  degenerates,  the  progeny  of  an  unequal  class 
struggle  for  that  right,  so  sonorously  guaranteed  by 
the  Constitution  of  these  United  States — the  right  of 
life,  liberty  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness.  I  plead  for 
the  prisoned  sane,  and  the  prisoned  insane.  I  plead 
for  the  hobo  and  the  harlot.  I  plead  for  the  poor 
criminal  and  for  the  criminal  rich.  I  plead  for  the 
warped  little  children — and  the  babies  yet  to  be  born. 
In  the  name  of  the  Most  High  God,  I  plead,  why 
shouldn't  the  Revolution  come,  and  come  now?  In  the 
name  of  Christ,  Amen !" 

The  wonderful,  sincere  voice  had  been  growing  more 


DR.  GEORGE  RENDS  THE  VEIL          97 

low  and  resonant.  It  lingeringly  thrilled,  in  its  last 
dozen  sentences.  It  ceased  without  Harold  being  ex 
actly  conscious  that  it  had  ceased,  at  last,  and  that 
its  auditors  were  dispersing  not  merely  without  ap 
plause,  but  scarcely  with  comments  to  each  other  ex 
cept  in  undertones  of  awe.  Harold  only  realized  that 
after  a  while  Don  and  he  were  out  of  doors  and  walking 
homeward.  The  everlasting  stars  were  looking  down 
on  our  little  planet  in  all  their  mystic  and  majestic 
loveliness ;  but  Harold,  as  he  glanced  up  for  a  mo 
ment,  seemed  to  see  in  their  golden  scintillation  some 
thing  cold,  cruel,  malevolent.  Was  the  whole  Universe 
pitiless  ?  The  soul  of  him  cried  out  fiercely.  Swiftly  he 
strode  along — only  Don  knew  how  swiftly  and  how 
feverishly,  as  he  watched  the  lad  meanwhile,  with  com 
passion,  but  in  silence. 

When  at  length  they  reached  their  sitting-room, 
Harold  let  go  of  himself.  He  made  a  couple  of  turns 
about  the  room,  face  flushed,  eyes  burning,  then 
stopped,  facing  Don  who  was  relighting  his  inevitable 
pipe. 

"I  tell  you,  Don,"  he  choked  in  excess  of  feeling, 
as  Don  looked  up  from  the  lounge-chair,  his  lucifer 
still  in  flame,  "things  have  got  to  be  different.  I'm 
going  to  make  'em  different,  if  I  die  for  it- — if  I  have  to 
bring  on — why,  if  I  have  to  bring  on — the  REVOLU 
TION!" 

The  flush  on  his  cheeks  faded  to  a  faint  ash-of-rose 
tint ;  his  eyes  took  on  the  seer's  look  of  far,  conse 
crated,  introspective  vision. 

"Quite  right,  my  boy,"  said  Don,  somewhat  shaken, 
despite  his  professional  cynicism.  "Things  have  got 
to  be  different,  but  the  revolution  will  arrive  on 
schedule  time  without  your  getting  your  good-looking 
self  hanged  by  precipitating  her.  I  knew  you  had  the 


98  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

makings  of  a  Socialist  in  you.  You  can  whoop  her  up 
for  Socialism  now,  as  if  you'd  been  fed  on  Karl  Marx 
ever  since  your  cradle." 

"Marx?"   queried   Harold. 

"The  profound  German  Jew  who  laid  the  foundations 
of  Socialism  as  a  philosophy  of  economics.  But  I'm 
not  going  to  fill  you  up  with  him  just  at  present.  It's 
too  late  and  I'm  too  tired;  I'm  going  to  say  good 
night." 

"It  lias  been  a  good  night !"  cried  Harold,  enthusi 
astically  wringing  his  hand.  "I  can  never  be  grateful 
enough  to  you  for  taking  me  to  hear  Dr.  Clark!  I 
hope  I  shall  soon  have  the  honor  of  meeting  him  so 
cially." 

"I'll  bring  that  about  in  due  season,"  replied  Don 
from  the  threshold  of  his  room,  glancing  back  for  a 
second  before  he  closed  the  door.  He  undressed  rap 
idly,  tossed  his  clothes  onto  a  chair  and  slipped  into 
his  pajamas;  but  he  didn't  at  once  lie  down. 

For  a  while  he  stood  at  the  open  window ;  stood 
staring  out  at  Boston  under  the  starlight — dim-drift 
ing  to  its  dreams  collectively. 

"How  young,  how  adorably  young  he  is !"  Don  mur 
mured  half  aloud,  and  smiled ;  not  the  smile  of  superi 
ority  in  experience,  but  of  affection  with  a  tinge  of 
pathetic  envy. 

Then  the  cynic  at  thirty-four  took  his  temples  be 
tween  his  palms  for  a  few  silent  moments,  and  with  a 
sigh  turned  to  his  bed. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

The  Vampire 

SENATOR  JACKBERRY  having  sent  word  he 
had  been  unexpectedly  called  into  court  and  must, 
therefore,  postpone  their  business  conference  for  two 
days,  Harold  felt  the  need  of  something  to  occupy  his 
mind,  or  rather,  to  raise  it  out  of  the  depression  into 
which  it  had  sunk  after  its  mood  of  intense  exaltation 
following  Dr.  Clark's  appeal. 

The  injustice,  the  diabolical  cruelty,  the  hideous 
despotism  of  conditions  oppressed  him  fearfully.  His 
wholesome  nature  rebelled  against  the  tyranny  of  this 
thought,  forced  upon  him  by  the  voice  of  Dr.  Clark 
crying  in  the  wilderness :  "Prepare  ye  the  way  of  the 
People;  make  straight  their  way!" 

It  rebelled  against  the  thought  of  world-suffering 
— world-despair,  as  every  healthy  mind  should.  Har 
old  longed  for  relief  from  the  pressure  now  upon  him. 
He  had  not  been  much  of  a  reader,  except  along  lines 
of  invention,  mechanics,  and  physics ;  and,  remember 
ing  his  "Looking  Backward,"  he  turned  to  Don's  little 
library  to  escape  for  a  while  from  this  world  into  a 
better.  Through  Don's  admiration  for  Poe,  he  took 
up  at  random  one  of  the  volumes  of  that  master.  Where 
he  opened,  the  page  began  thus : 

"Misery  is  manifold;  the  wretchedness  of  earth  is 
multiform.  Overreaching  the  wide  horizon  like  the 
rainbow,  its  hues  are  as  various  as  the  hues  of  that 
arch ;  as  distinct,  too,  yet  as  intimately  blended.  Over- 

99 


100  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

reaching  the  wide  horizon  as  the  rainbow?  How  is 
it  that,  from  beauty,  I  have  derived  a  type  of  un- 
lovelincss — from  the  covenant  of  peace  a  simile  of 
sorrow?" 

Dismayed  by  this  accidental  pounding  in  of  the  domi 
nant  he  craved  escape  from,  he  put  down  the  volume 
and  took  up  another.  It  chanced  to  be  "Les  Miser- 
ables."  Don,  he  remembered,  had  spoken  of  this,  with 
a  kind  of  fierce  enthusiasm,  as  "the  noblest  work  of 
modern  genius."  "The  Wretched,"  Harold  reflected, 
as  he  translated  the  title  to  himself,  "is  not  the  kind 
of  a  title  that  promises  much  amelioration  of  my  pres 
ent  gloomy  mood,  but  here  goes:  I'll  tackle  it."  He 
took  the  book,  and  stretching  himself  in  the  lounge- 
chair  began. 

Hour  chased  hour,  and  still  he  read ;  read  with  a 
fierce,  tingling  sympathy  for  Jean  Valjean  that  now 
and  then  made  his  hands  clench  on  the  covers ;  read 
till  night  fell  upon  him  with  what  seemed  a  tropic  sud 
denness,  after  a  fiery  sunset.  In  a  state  of  smouldering 
indignation  he  sallied  forth  into  the  twilight  twinkle 
of  the  town. 

He  had  gone  but  a  few  steps  when  he  encountered 
Don. 

"Hello,  Harold !"  cried  the  reporter,  "what  you  been 
doing  and  where  you  going?  Damn  it,  I  took  you  for 
a  ghost!" 

"I've  just  been  reading  'Les  Miserables,'  "  replied 
Harold.  Turning,  he  walked  along  with  Don,  who  had 
not  seemed  inclined  to  pause. 

The  night  was  perfection.  Open  cars  went  clanging 
past.  But  these  held  no  invitation  for  Don  and  Har 
old.  They  much  preferred  to  use  their  legs. 

Harold  showed  no  disposition  to  talk  about  the  sub 
ject  of  his  reading.  Moodily  staring  straight  ahead, 


THE  VAMPIRE  101 

he  walked  along  for  a  few  moments  in  silence.  "Is  life 
so  unfair,  so  unjust,  so  terrible,  if  beheld  truly  at 
close  quarters?"  was  the  burden  of  his  thought. 

Don,  with  a  side-glance,  appeared  to  divine  his  medi 
tations. 

"Jean  Valjean  is  more  than  a  character;  he's  a 
type.  Life  is  unjust  to  countless  numbers,"  he  said 
tersely.  "This  appears  to  be  a  universe  of  law — law  in 
a  wide,  scientific  sense,  of  course — but  I  can't  say 
that  it  seems  to  me  in  any  sense  a  benevolent  universe. 
I'd  like  right  well  to  believe  so,  but  I  can't;  and  I'm 
not  going  to  lie  to  myself.  It's  bad  enough  to  lie  in 
type  of  the  masses,  'them  asses,'  as  Jay  Gould  used 
to  call  them,  at  so  much  per  col.,  but  I've  never  lied  to 
myself;  that's  one  consolation." 

"Don't  talk  that  way !"  cried  Harold  testily.  "I'm 
beginning  to  feel  as  if  all  the  props  were  being  knocked 
from  under  me.  I'm  terribly  upset.  Destruction  has 
to  precede  construction  sometimes,  I  suppose,  but  the 
process  is  painful  and  bewildering."  Then  he  added 
impulsively,  wistfully :  "I've  no  one  but  you,  Don,  and 
Sydney,  that  I  seem  to  feel  sure  of." 

The  old  lump  jumped  into  Don's  throat. 

"For  God's  sake,  Harold,"  he  answered  savagely, 
"don't  be  sure  of  me!  I'm  the  last,  the  very  last,  per 
son  you  can  depend  on.  You'll  see ;  you'll  know.  I'd 
give  anything  in  the  world  to  deserve  what  you  said 
just  now,  but  I  can't  let  you  go  on  believing."  His 
voice  faltered,  then  harshened  again.  "Don't  ever  let 
yourself  depend  on  me  in  anything  vital.  I'm  a  crea 
ture  of  wounds  that  re-open,  of  cicatrices,  of  abysses ; 
you'll  know  what  I  mean  some  day,  and  it's  better 
for  you  to  be- — prepared." 

In  another  tone  he  added,  a  moment  later  as  they 
still  walked  side  by  side:  "And  now  I  suppose  I've 


102  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

knocked  still  another  prop  from  under  you !" 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Harold  simply.  "I'd  rather  have 
gone  on  believing.  Did  she  do  it?" 

Don  did  not  pretend  to  misunderstand  him. 

"I've  always  wanted  to  believe  so,"  he  answered 
quietly.  "She  was  responsible,  perhaps,  for  much  of 
it,  but  I  suppose  the  tendency  to  evil  and  the  capacity 
for  it  must  have  been  all  within  me,  waiting  to  de 
velop  sooner  or  later.  Frankly,  I  don't  know  whether 
she's  most  to  blame.  I'm  still  under  her  spell,  I  guess, 
to  some  extent."  After  a  moment  he  broke  out  again: 
"You  shall  judge  for  yourself.  Listen,  I  feel  like  telling 
you. 

"She  was  a  Vampire.  You  know  Burne-Jones'  pic 
ture  of  that  type,  and  Kipling's  poem  that  was  writ 
ten  to  it?  I'm  not  stuck  on  Kipling,  as  a  poet  or  as 
a  man,  but  his  widely  quoted  verses  on  'The  Vampire' 
type  of  woman  do  fill  the  order;  and  it's  a  damn  curi 
ous  fact  that,  when  my  late  wife,  Yetive  Soule — her 
real  name  originally,  by  the  bye,  was  Lily  Kundy— 
read  a  copy  of  Kippy's  poem,  she  instantly  bristled 
with  rage  against  him,  as  if  she  recognized  it  as  a  verbal 
picture  of  her  own  spiritual  and  emotional  emptiness. 
I  had  never  known  her  to  show  anger  before.  She  took 
the  rhymes  to  herself  as  a  personal  insult;  the  vacuum 
resented  the  voice."  Don  paused  a  moment,  possibly, 
as  a  public  speaker  does  when  he  feels  he  has  uttered 
a  telling  phrase,  although  Don  never  seemed  a  talker 
seeking  to  make  points. 

"All  the  poets  who  extol  femininity,"  he  presently 
continued,  "all  the  unsuccessful  scribblers  who  envy 
Kip  his  ill-got  American  gold,  and  his  voice  now  rap 
idly  dwindling,  would  have  chuckled  to  hear  her  and  to 
see  her  denouncing  him  as  'a  vile  beast  for  saying 
such  things  of  a  lady,  just  because  the  lady  didn't  hap- 


THE  VAMPIRE  103 

pen  to  care  for  a  man's  affection  and  wanted  a  good 
time!'  It  was  rich,  I  tell  you,  but  the  joke  was  really 
on  me,  for  I  was  then  so  infatuated  with  her  outside 
beauty  and  her  matrimonial  tricks  that  I  actually  sym 
pathized  with  her  fury  and  would  have  liked  to  lick 
the  poet  for  keeps,  on  the  spot,  because  of  his  versi 
fied  blasphemy.  My  Lord,  when  I  look  on  those  days 
and  behold  my  believing  self,  I  burn  and  shiver  with 
shame  at  my  utter  folly ! 

"Damn  all  illusions !  I  was  hugging  one,  Hal ;  for 
I  was  trying  hard,  and  fooling  myself  at  times  into 
a  belief  I  was  really  succeeding,  to  create  a  responsive 
soul  in  my  wife,  to  make  her  a  soul-mate  as  well  as  a 
body-mate;  just  as  Pygmalion  warmed  by  love  his 
marble  statue  into  a  ripe  and  glowing  woman.  Lily 
Kundy— Yetive  Soule,  I  mean — was  only  a  tinted  shell. 
She  could  look  spirituelle;  she  could  act  it,  at  times; 
was  fond  of  taking  up  one  odd  cult  after  another,  and 
posing  as  a  high-priestess  in  Theosophy,  Christian  Sci 
ence,  Mental  Healing,  Bahaism,  even  Spiritualism  pure 
and  simple,  by  Jupiter !  Her  beauty  attracted  fol 
lowers  in  all  cults,  and  their  worship  fed  her  vanity. 
She  was  a  sure-enough,  simon-pure  Vampire !" 

Don  paused ;  and  Harold,  though  horrified  by  Don's 
malignity,  feeling  he  must  say  something,  nervously 
asked : 

"What  do  you  suppose  she's  doing  now?  How  long 
is  it  since  you  parted?" 

"I  don't  suppose;  I  know.  At  this  very  hour  I'm 
morally  certain  she's  at  her  favorite  diversion,  suck 
ing  the  life-blood  of  her  particular  prey.  I  haven't 
laid  eyes  on  her  in  seven  years.  God  forbid  I  should 
ever  look  on  her  beauty  again!  I  might  succumb  as 
before,  and  strive  once  more  to  hug  my  illusion." 

"Can  any  woman's — magic — be  as   powerful   as  all 


104  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

that?"  queried  Harold,  in  surprise.  "I  find  it  mighty 
hard  to  believe  so,  Don ;  though  I  admit  the  casual  sight 
of  her  thrilled  me — but  with  intense  repulsion  follow 
ing  attraction,  as  I  told  you.  I  was  glad  to  get  away." 

"It  was  the  keenness,  the  purity,  of  your  instinct 
only,  that  saved  you  from  sudden  enslavement  to  her 
spell,  had  she  chosen  to  exert  it.  You  were  playing 
in  great  luck  to  escape." 

"Don,  you  speak  so  fiercely,  I  could  almost  fancy 
you  must  be  under  the  influence  of — some  stimulant," 
remonstrated  Harold. 

"I  speak  under  the  influence  of  a  memory  that  needs 
no  stimulants,"  replied  Don,  evidently  trying  to  calm 
his  tones.  "  'Oh,  for  a  knife  to  murder  memory,  or 
drug  to  drown  it  fifty  fathoms  deep  below  the  plum 
met-line  of  consciousness!'  You  doubt  the  truth?  I 
tell  you  Yetive  Soule  is  one  of  those  women  who  lack 
only  money  to  be  a  scourge  on  earth.  There  have 
been  such  women  in  all  times ;  there  are  today.  The 
whole  world  hears  of  them.  They're  like  a  pestilence. 
Wherever  they  go,  they  leave  a  trail  of  broken  hearts, 
ruined  homes,  dishonored  names.  They  move  across 
continents  like  prima  donnas,  or  queens,  and  men  of 
every  race  and  environment  are  as  putty  in  their 
hands.  Yetive  is  that  kind.  But,  having  started  poor, 
she  has  had  to  be  content  with  a  narrow  area  in  which 
to  pick  her  victims.  The  world  may  hear  of  her  yet — 
to  its  sorrow!" 

"Where  did  you  ever  run  across  her,  Don?" 

"It  was  in  Chicago  I  first  met  her.  I  was  twenty. 
For  all  my  hard  knocks  and  disillusionments,  I  still 
nursed  some  dreams,  and  I'd  kept  myself  clean.  You 
know  what  I  mean.  Maybe  I  wasn't  so  much  from 
any  inclination  to  chastity,  but  as  a  mere  matter  of 
prideful  taste,  for  I'd  seen  lots  of  chaps,  good  fel- 


THE  VAMPIRE  105 

lows,  too,  go  rotten. 

"I  used  to  wonder  in  those  days  how  and  when  I'd 
meet  the  girl  who  inhabited  my  house  of  dreams.  Well, 
one  day,  I  was  ordered  by  my  editor  to  get  a  story 
of  the  winning  pictures  in  a  national  exhibit  of  photo 
graphs  at  Detroit  that  week.  A  certain  classy  studio  in 
Chicago  had  been  winning  all  the  medals  and  money 
prizes.  There  was  a  bit  of  delay  to  my  seeing  the 
man  I  particularly  wanted  to  interview,  and  I  found 
myself  in  a  little  room  off  the  main  studio.  A  girl 
was  there,  sitting  before  some  kind  of  a  rack,  her  head 
and  face  covered  by  a  black  cloth.  She  was  retouch 
ing,  and  her  pencil  made  clicking  noises  against  the 
glass." 

Don  suddenly  fell  silent  for  a  minute  or  two.  The 
pair  had  turned  out  of  the  lighted  thoroughfare  and 
were  passing  along  shaded  streets.  Queer  small  noises, 
elfin  rustlings  in  the  grass  of  velvet  lawns,  came 
stealthily  upon,  and  through,  the  fragrant  darkness. 
There  was  a  sense,  a  hint,  of  drifting  away  on  some 
special  wave  of  reminiscence. 

"I  caught  my  breath,"  Don  suddenly  resumed, 
"when  she  pushed  that  black  thing  off  and  looked  up 
at  me,  Hal.  Hers  was  a  face  one  isn't  likely  ever  to 
forget.  Ask  yourself  if  that's  not  so !" 

Harold  nodded,  but  spoke  not. 

"Think  of  the  creamiest  white,  the  most  sublucent 
ivory,  you  ever  saw;  the  complexion  of  a  shark's 
tooth,  one  traveler  called  it.  That  was  the  color  of 
her  face  and  neck.  That  neck  used  to  rouse  the  most 
extraordinary  passions  in  me.  So  white,  such  an 
extraordinary,  bewildering  white,  that  I  often  wanted 
to  squeeze  it  in  both  hands,  tight,  tighter !  Ugh !  it 
makes  me  shiver  now.  And  yet,  mind  you,  it  wasn't  a 
cold  white ;  it  was  a  warm,  faintly  flushed  white,  as  I 


106  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

said.  And  her  hair  was  red — such  a  wonderful  red 
— not  really  red,  you  know,  nor  yellow;  but  in  certain 
lights  a  red  like  some  oranges,  and  so  heavy  it  seemed 
to  pull  her  head  backward.  The  effect  was  regal !  But 
it  was  her  mouth  I  dwelt  and  doted  upon,  most;  her 
mouth  and  her  marvellous  eyes.  I  remember  she  told 
me  once  that  one  of  her  girl  school-mates  nicknamed 
her  'Eyes' ;  used  to  cry  out :  'Oh !  here  comes  "Eyes," 
and  to  rave  over  her  beauty,  like  a  man,  or  a  damn 
fool  boy — such  as  I  was." 

He  paused  again,  brooding.  In  the  light  from  a 
lamp-post  Harold  saw  his  face.  The  haggard  lines 
had  deepened. 

"Her  mouth  was  like  a  poinsettia  blossom  in  its 
intense,  vivid  scarlet.  That  red,  red  mouth  in  that 
white,  white  face — oh!  she  did  the  most  fascinating 
things  with  her  mouth,  Hal.  One  was  perpetually 
watching  it — that  is,  when  one  escaped  her  eyes  for 
a  moment.  At  first,  they  startled  you — those  marvel 
lous  eyes.  They  were  a  reddish  hazel,  with  heavy, 
black  lashes  and  slender  brows.  Alluring,  seductive, 
sense-enkindling  eyes !  After  a  while  you  found  out 
that  they  were  the  eyes  of  a  Vampire ;  eyes  that  sucked 
you  dry;  that  made  you  tell,  reluctantly  at  first,  the 
things  you  would  rather  not;  and  presently  made  you 
empty  your  heart  of  all  secrets ;  made  you  want  with 
eagerness  to  lay  bare  your  soul  to  their  proving  quest." 

Don  seemed  to  find  it  impossible  to  continue,  and 
Harold  half  shrank  from  hearing  more;  yet  longed  to 
know. 

Presently,  with  noticeable  effort,  Don  resumed: 

"It  may  sound  inconsistent,  when  I  say  that,  for 
all  her  ivory  whiteness,  she  as  a  whole  somehow  sug 
gested  flame.  Yet  she  did.  Maybe  it  was  her  lips 
and  hair.  But  the  flame  was  all  on  the  outside.  She 


THE  VAMPIRE  107 

was  ice,  within.  I  never  once  in  the  three  years  we 
lived  together  like  man  and  wife — 

Harold  uttered  an  exclamation  of  incredulity.  Don 
glanced  at  him. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  legally  married  her,"  said  he,  "but  never 
once  did  I  see  her  display  one  spark  of  genuine,  warm 
human  feeling — not  once.  Endearments,  beguilements, 
caresses,  oh,  certainly ;  she  had  those,  of  course.  They 
are  a  Vampire's  plentiful  stock-in-trade ;  but  back 
of  every  passioned  caress  was  hidden  some  selfish  de 
sign.  She  was  always  intent  on  receiving  gratifica 
tion  of  passion,  or  of  vanity,  never  of  giving.  The 
mystical  communion  through  the  flesh  held  no  spiritual 
meaning  for  her.  Her  soul  never  met  mine  there,  for 
she  hadn't  any.  Hal,  she  was  the  essence,  the  quintes 
sence,  of  selfishness.  I  know  now  she  married  me  to 
escape  what  she  deemed  slavery.  I  was  the  first  rock 
of  refuge  to  which,  like  tossed-about  kelp,  she  could 
cling.  She  was  eighteen  at  the  time  and  had  toiled 
in  that  studio  two  years.  But  she  was  clever — clever 
as  Hell !" 

Don  wiped  a  dampness,  not  of  the  night,  from  his 
brow,  and  Harold  shuddered. 

"She  knew  her  good  looks  made  her  stock-in-trade," 
Don  presently  continued,  "and  she  was  as  cold  and 
calculating  as  an  adventuress  of  forty.  She  didn't 
propose  to  dissipate  those  good  looks  by  intrigues  and 
irregularities,  not  she!  Now  what  I'm  going  to  say 
will  sound  terrible  to  you,  Hal.  I'm  knocking  still 
another  prop  from  under  you,  but  the  plain  truth  is 
that  she  had  never  been  truly  or  spiritually  chaste ;  she 
was  merely  virtuous,  virtuous  from  calculation  and  not 
from  any  innate  purity.  I  found  out  her  ambition 
at  an  early  stage  of  the  game.  She  had  her  fervors 
and  her  life-dream,  too ;  her  dream  was  to  be  a  pro- 


108  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

fessional  beauty,  the  kind  the  whole  world  hears  about. 
Well,  she  planned  a  regular  campaign,  and  there 
were  to  be  no  devastating  love-affairs  in  it — not  at 
that  point  in  the  program,  at  least.  Her  cleverness 
was  pretty  human- — diabolical — if  you  follow  it  from 
its  inception. 

"She  was  a  California  girl — did  I  tell  you? — and 
of  mixed  nationality ; — French,  Portuguese,  I'm  not 
sure  which ;  with  a  strain  of  Irish  blood  in  her  to  ac 
count  for  that  hair  and  skin.  I  think  her  father  was 
a  trader  who  had  drifted  into  Lower  California.  Any 
way,  through  vicissitudes  of  one  sort  and  another, 
Lily  Kundy  found  herself  alone  in  Chicago  at  sixteen 
with  the  necessity  of  self-support  staring  her  in  the 
face.  Please,  Hal,  don't  think  me  unchivalrous !  I'm 
perfectly  aware  that  a  young,  beautiful  and  penniless 
girl  alone  in  a  mighty  city  is  up  against  a  proposition 
that  requires  genius  of  a  high  order  to  solve.  But  I 
told  you  she  was  infernally  clever. 

"She  had  one  propensity  something  like  a  genuine 
passion,  which  permeated,  as  it  were,  her  emotional 
emptiness ;  and  that  was  pictures.  Portraits  always, 
and  preferably  of  women,  or  of  delicately  shaped 
youths.  With  her  ambition  clutching  her  even  then, 
she  sought  the  ateliers  and  the  photograph  studios,  and 
was  engaged  at  once.  Part  of  her  work  was  retouch 
ing,  but  posing  for  show-photographs  was  another, 
and  this  was  what  she  aimed  at.  She  wasn't  the  volup 
tuous  type  as  to  figure.  She  was  very  slim  and  fairly 
tall.  Her  eyes  were  almost  on  a  level  with  mine,  and 
I'm  over  five  feet  eight.  But  her  slimness  was  grace 
itself,  and  she  was  proportioned  like  a  Greek  statue ; 
like  Powers'  Greek  Slave.  The  studio  was  full  of  pic 
tures  of  her — shoulder  studies,  three-quarter  views  of 
her  wonderful  back,  with  her  small,  firm  breasts  just 


THE  VAMPIRE  109 

glimpsing.  One,  of  the  head  and  profile,  and  a  shoul 
der  portrait,  had  won  two  of  the  medals  for  her  studio 
at  the  Detroit  exhibit. 

"She  hoped  through  these  pictures  to  obtain  an 
increasing  renown,  and  then  she  could  pick  and  choose 
her  future.  This  had  gone  along  for  two  years  when 
I  appeared  upon  the  scene,  and  I  fitted  into  her  scheme 
of  things  just  then.  You  see,  renown  was  a  little 
slower  in  coming  than  she  had  reckoned,  and  her  vanity 
was  insatiable,  colossal,  unimaginable. 

"Well,  even  though  I  was  only  twenty,  I  was  no  cub- 
reporter.  I  was  doing  exceedingly  well  as  a  newspaper 
correspondent  for  outside  papers,  besides  my  salary 
on  my  own.  My  future  did  look  brilliant.  Yetive — 
that's  what  she  taught  me  to  call  her,  when  she  in 
vented  that  fancy  name — had  begun  to  feel  the  need  of 
a  setting  for  her  beauty;  clothes,  jewels  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing;  and  she  was  not  ready  at  that  time 
to  barter  her  beauty  for  these  goods — she  had  other 
plans  up  her  sleeve." 

Don  lapsed  into  another  silence,  a  prolonged  one, 
and  for  half  a  dozen  blocks  walked  moodily,  enshrouded 
in  his  thoughts.  Harold  had  begun  to  feel  a  curious 
resentment  against  him.  It  seemed  unchivalrous,  al 
most  indecent  somehow,  to  strip  this  Lily  Kundy — 
this  girl  who  had  been  Don's  wife — of  every  decent, 
human  attribute.  Harold  waited,  rather  coldly,  for 
the  story  to  be  resumed. 

"We  were  married."  Don's  voice  was  determined 
now,  as  if  he  were  decided  to  be  rid  speedily  of  a  dis 
tasteful  business.  "She  seemed  to  extract  a  great 
deal  of  satisfaction  out  of  her  married  title.  At  the 
time  I  hugged  the  thought  that  it  was  because  she 
loved  me.  God!"  He  laughed  contemptuously,  strid 
ently. 


110  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

"She  met  an  agreeable  set — my  work  brought  me 
in  touch  with  all  sorts  of  delightful  and  influential 
people.  Well,  let  me  hurry  to  the  end  of  things.  My 
dream  was  to  make  her  happy.  After  that,  I  naturally 
wanted  to  be  happy,  too.  It  wasn't  long  before  I  found 
out  that  she  cared  only  for  admiration,  although  her 
ambition,  mark  you,  was  never  once  lost  sight  of.  She 
read,  studied,  observed.  Oh !  she  was  clever,  I  swear 
to  you.  Her  cleverness  was  dazzling. 

"Then  trouble  came.  It  was  over  money.  I  simply 
couldn't  supply  her  lust  for  money,  clothes,  the  ma 
terial  advertisement  of  her  beauty.  She  cared  nothing 
for  the  trouble  she  plunged  me  in,  the  debts,  embar 
rassments  or  difficulties.  To  satisfy  her  vanity,  no  in 
dignity  to  me  was  even  considered.  She  would  even 
accept  money  from  other  men,  so  long  as  they  would 
give  it  without  hope  of  recompense.  She  was  too  cal 
culating,  too  shrewd,  to  make  the  concessions  they 
ultimately  counted  on. 

"Finally  I  was  dispatched  abroad  on  a  very  im 
portant  assignment.  I  went  with  a  heart  of  lead,  for 
by  this  time  life  had  become  well-nigh  unbearable,  and 
I  burned  with  a.  thousand  suspicions.  Whenever  she 
made  an  elaborate  toilet  and  went  out,  I  could  not  help 
fearing  it  was  to  some  assignation  with  a  rich  infatuate. 
She  lied  to  me  recklessly,  continually,  even  about  trivial 
things.  Truth  she  seemed  to  hold  in  aversion.  I  re 
member  once  when  I  tried  to  reason  with  her  on  the 
absolute  necessity  of  perfect  veracity  between  man 
and  wife,  she  flouted  me  airily  with  an  epigram  she 
had  picked  up  from  a  Mrs.  Josey,  a  leader  in  a  cult  she 
was  then  following,  to  wit:  "There's  no  such  thing 
as  matter.  All  is  mind.  So  it  cannot  matter,  and 
you  should  never  mind  it,  if  anyone  tells  a  lie."  She 
repeated  this  with  so  charmingly  naive  a  conviction  of 


THE  VAMPIRE  111 

its  merits,  and  made  such  an  adorable  mouth  at  me, 
that  I  actually  couldn't  help  laughing  and  kissing  her. 

"Well,  I  was  gone  three  months.  I  had  been  very 
handsomely  paid  and  had  cabled  most  of  my  money  back 
to  Yetive.  Somehow,  I  had  begun  to  hope  again — 
how  the  heart  of  man  clings  to  delusions ! — that  a  soul 
would  dawn  in  my  wife ;  that  an  infinite  patience  of  lov 
ing  devotion  would  win ;  that  things,  in  short,  might 
still  come  out  right.  All  the  way  back  on  the  boat  I 
wondered  how  she'd  greet  me,  and  how  we'd  start  all 
over  again. 

"When  I  reached  Chicago,  I  reported  at  the  office 
at  once.  I  found  a  telegram  there  from  Yetive.  She 
asked  me  to  meet  her  at  a  little  Italian  restaurant 
where  we  had  often  dined.  Well,  I  did  meet  her,  won 
dering.  Harold — across  the  table  that  evening,  with 
the  orchestra  playing  'La  Paloma,' — she  told  me  calmly 
and  cold-bloodedly  that  hereafter,  from  right  then,  we 
would  go  our  separate  ways.  She  liked  me  well  enough, 
she  said,  but  she  had  ambitions  which  I  clearly  could 
not  gratify  then,  or  in  the  future  and — well,  she  had 
sold  everything  in  our  cosy  suburban  house,  and  there 
wasn't  any  home  for  me  to  go  to,  that  was  all. 

"She  offered  me  her  hand,  and  said  I  might  give 
her  a  good-bye,  good-luck  kiss,  if  I  wished,  but  I  de 
clined  with  a  rough  oath  both  kiss  and  handshake.  To 
be  historically  exact,  I  think  I  used  some  pretty  bad 
language  to  her,  though  I  was  trembling — drunk  at 
the  sight  of  her  beauty,  even  then,  and  with  memory 
of  her  treacherous,  warm  embraces.  I  believe  I  told 

her  she  was  the  very  worst  kind  of  a  damned ,  and 

she  laughed  and  replied:  'You're  a  gentleman,  finished 
by  travel.'  Then  she  sailed  out. 

"I  settled  the  bill  and  astonished  the  waiter  by  tip 
ping  him  a  dollar.  I  don't  exactly  understand  to  this 


112  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

day  why  I  committed  that  blazing  extravagance. 

"I  have  never  seen  her  from  that  hour.  Soon  as 
was  legally  practicable,  she  got  a  divorce — desertion 
or  non-support,  I  forget  which — I  doubt  if  I  even  read 
the  papers  served  upon  me.  She  married  again  almost 
immediately.  Her  plans  had  been  laid  for  months.  The 
man  was  very  much  older  than  she,  and  could  give  her 
far  more  money  than  I.  I  was  twenty-three  the  very 
day,  Hal,  she  calmly  showed  me  she  had  squeezed  me 
dry ;  abolished  my  home ;  sold  all  my  belongings,  books, 
even  cherished  pictures  given  me  by  artist  friends ; 
taken  the  pretty  large  amount  I  had  earned,  and  with 
which  she  intended  to  start  out  a  new  quest  for  money 
and  glory. 

"I  saw  pictures  of  her  in  studios  and  shops  after 
that,  and,  once  in  a  while,  her  name — the  name  she  had 
invented  and  clung  to,  in  spite  of  her  new  marriage,  as 
if  it  had  been  a  stage  name.  She  was  in  Algiers  for 
a  time,  and  later  it  was  there  I  heard  her  talked  about 
considerably  as  a  great  new  American  beauty.  An 
officer  at  the  Russian  legation  in  Algiers  told  me  she 
had  become  a  widow  and  was  on  the  eve  of  a  new  mar 
riage  with  a  very  wealthy  consumptive  Jew,  who  had 
purchased  an  Italian  title.  I  had  been  sent  over  to 
Algeria  to  report  the  Morocco  trouble.  Hal,  the  Rus 
sian  suspected  her  early  connection  with  me,  but  of 
course,  he  forbore  the  slightest  reference  to  it.  That's 
the  tale,  up  to  date,  my  friend.  That's  all,  and  quite 
enough." 

Harold  shuddered.  Earnestly  desirous  of  laying  the 
ghosts  of  memory,  he  asked  irrelevantly: 

"But,  Don,  why  did  you  come  back  to  Boston,  of 
all  places  in  the  world,  when  you  were  doing  such  big 
things  in  those  days?  Just  fancy  being  sent  to  Mo 
rocco  on  an  assignment !"  His  tone  was  enthusi- 


THE  VAMPIRE  113 

astic  and  regretful;  then  he  added  hastily  in  a  note  of 
embarrassment :  "I  shouldn't  have  asked  that  foolish 
question.  Of  course  it  was  to  avoid  a  chance  of  meet 
ing  her." 

Don  spoke  now  with  reluctancy,  and  quite  slowly : 
"No — it  wasn't  that,  Hal.  I  took  things  very  hard. 
I  was  criminally  weak.  For  five  years  I  walked  in 
Hell.  One  day — I'd  drifted  'way  out  West — I  was  des 
perate.  I'd  got  about  to  the  end  of  the  string — hope 
included — when  chance  tossed  me  across  the  path  of 
Dr.  Clark.  He  was  traveling  through  Oregon  then 
on  one  of  his  queer  missions.  He  put  me  on  my  feet 
again,  and — well,  I  found  that  at  certain  times — when 
I  had  sunk  into  the  slough  of  despond — Dr.  Clark 
could  always  help  me.  So  I  came  back — back  to  Boston 
to  be  near  him.  You'll  know  about  that,  too,  some 
day.  I  don't  want  you  to,  but  I'm  afraid  you  will. 
Now  let's  drop  the  whole  damned  subject!" 

All  the  resentment  had  oozed  out  of  Harold's  heart. 
He  was  beginning  to  comprehend  many  things.  They 
had  returned  on  their  tracks,  and  now  were  nearly 
at  their  quarters.  Don  had  relit  his  pipe,  which  dur 
ing  the  long  walk  and  talk  had  been  neglected.  He 
did  not  appear  as  dejected  as  at  the  start;  and  Harold 
~?t  felt  that  perfect  silence  fitted  the  present  mood  of 
his  friend.  When  they  reached  their  parlor,  Harold 
still  spoke  no  word.  He  merely  wrung  Don's  hand, 
and  retreated  to  his  room  and  rest. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

Don's  Fall 

SOME  few  days  later,  the  august  Senator  notified 
Harold  by  telephone  that  he  and  Winn  had  some 
important  matters  to  discuss  with  him  and  humbly 
desired  his  presence.  Harold  forthwith  attended  on 
these  worthies.  He  found  them  foregathered  in  Jack- 
berry's  office. 

After  a  few  greetings  and  commonplaces,  Harold 
asked  bluntly : 

"Well,  how's  the  organization  coming  along?  Any 
capital  interested,  yet?  What  prospects?" 

"Excellent  prospects !"  exclaimed  the  Senator,  beam 
ing  with  satisfaction.  "Couldn't  be  finer.  Inside  of 
three  months  we  can  do  business,  I'm  positive." 

"Three  months!"  ejaculated  Harold,  aghast.  "Why 
— I — I  should  think  three  weeks  would  be  an  inordi 
nately  long  time  to  wait !" 

Jackberry   smiled   indulgently. 

"My  dear  friend,"  said  he,  soothingly,  "Rome  wasn't 
built  in  a  day.  Large  bodies  move  slowly,  and  this 
proposed  body,  this  new  corporation,  bids  fair  to  be 
very  large  indeed.  Moreover,  the  proceedings  in  the 
Equity  Court  will,  by  themselves,  take  some  weeks, 
even  if  we  organize  at  once." 

"The  deuce!"  ejaculated  Harold.  Jackberry  only 
smiled  the  more. 

"Unfortunate,  but  true,"  he  murmured.  "My  dear 
sir,  to  a  man  whose  ambition  is  to  do  things  properly 

114 


DON'S  FALL  115 

and  promptly,  the  Equity  Court  offers  more  stumbling- 
blocks  and  pitfalls  of  irritating  delay  than  a  common- 
sense  imagination  could  conceive." 

"Is  it  possible?"  cried  Harold,  in  anger. 

"Winn  knows  the  truth  of  what  I  say  by  personal  ex 
perience,"  answered  Jackberry.  "How  long  was  it, 
Calvin,  they  had  your  philanthropic  head  in  chancery 
up  there,  and  were  pounding  it,  till  you  got  me,  and 
I  succeeded  in  extricating  you,  at  considerable  loss? 
Four  years,  wasn't  it?  My  dear  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  we 
must  steer  clear,  at  the  start,  of  any  possible  chance 
of  getting  involved  there.  The  Equity  Court  is  an 
infernal  humbug  which  we  took  over  from  the  pro 
cedure  of  England  with  a  lot  of  other  anteJ  I :  uvian 
truck.  They  call  it  there  the  Court  of  Chancer;  and, 
in  the  slang  of  the  prize-fighter,  getting  an  oppc  nt's 
head  into  chancery  quite  expresses  it.  Law,  in  ii  ex 
pansion  to  meet  modern  conditions,  hasn't  mai .  ned 
abreast  of  modern  business  development.  Law,  any 
way,  is  bad  enough — take  a  lawyer's  word  for  it ! — but 
Equity— ugh !" 

The  final  grunt  hardly  seemed  to  express  the  depth 
of  the  Senator's  disgust  at  the  Equity  Court.  He 
returned  to  the  attack. 

"My  dear  Harold,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  I  should  say," 
intervened  Winn  with  tones  of  oily  obsequiousness  in 
sharp  contrast  to  the  Senator's  bluffness,  "we  have 
here  some  of  the  documents  of  incorporation,  already 
drawn  up.  Suppose  we  look  them  over,  to-day.  I 
was  brought  up  as  a  plain  man  of  business,  and  am  only 
incidentally  acquainted  with  the  drawing-up  of  im 
portant  documents.  As  a  business  man,  and  as  a  pro 
moter  who  has  been  fairly  successful  in  the  way  of 
interesting  capital  to  make  investments,  I  realize  the 
importance  of  having  all  preliminaries  arrayed  in  such 


116  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

a  smooth  and  inviting  fashion  that  prospective  in 
vestors  of  the  large  capital  we  need  will  not  be  de 
terred,  and  will  have  no  possible  temptation  to  find 
fault  or  to  withdraw." 

"I  agree  with  all  that,"  replied  Harold,  sturdily, 
after  he  had  looked  over  the  papers  Jackberry  handed 
him.  "Yet  it  seems  to  me,  begging  the  Senator's  par 
don,  that  most  of  this  very  involved  and,  to  me,  con 
fusing,  legal  phraseology  could  be  radically  simplified, 
and  would,  if  reduced  to  simplicity,  make  a  more 
instant  appeal  to  the  capitalists  we  seek." 

"I  tell  you  what  you  do !"  Senator  Jackberry  threw 
back  his  head  and  guffawed  uproariously.  "You  take 
my  legal  verbiage  home  with  you,  and  edit  it,  my  dear 
sir;  edit  it  according  to  your  own  notions  of  the  eter 
nal  unfitness  of  things !" 

"All  right,"  replied  Harold  with  pleased  surprise. 
"That's  just  what  I  wanted  to  suggest;  only  I  didn't 
want  to  seem  presumptuous,  or  oblivious  to  the  great 
labor  you've  taken  in  shaping  up  these  papers." 

"That's  all  in  the  day's  work,"  answered  Jack- 
berry.  "When  you  get  the  stuff  into  the  shape  you 
like  it,  we'll  go  over  it  again  carefully  to  see  whether 
you've  omitted  anything  essential.  You  go  home  and 
edit  me;  then  I'll  edit  you,  and  then  we'll  let  Brother 
Winn  mull  it  over  finally  like  a  Judicial  Owl,  to  decide 
whether  our  joint  brains  have  birthed  a  mountain,  or 
a  mouse." 

When  Harold  departed  with  the  big  bundle  of  type 
written  matter,  it  was  his  first  intention  to  ask  Don 
Brush  to  play  editor  and  to  get  that  experienced 
writer's  opinion  as  to  just  exactly  what  possible  rami 
fications  of  meaning  lay  concealed  in  the  verbal  stew. 

He  had  already  begun  to  feel  a  certain  vague  un 
ease — a  subliminal  suspicion — that  he  was  going  to 


DON'S  FALL  117 

be  played  for  that  kind  of  a  fish  reputed  to  be  hatched 
at  the  rate  of  one  a  minute.  Yet  it  was  really  dif 
ficult  to  suspect  so  frank  and  bluff  a  fellow  as  Jack- 
berry,  a  man  who  didn't  pretend  to  be  an  altruist,  a 
man  endorsed  by  Sydney  even  more  thoroughly  in  re 
cent  letters,  and  a  graduate  from  Harvard,  into  the 
bargain. 

Jackberry,  to  be  sure,  in  spite  of  the  Harvard  halo, 
never,  even  in  his  smoothest  moments,  impressed  Har 
old  as  being  quite  a  gentleman.  But  Harold  reflected, 
candidly,  this  might  even  constitute  an  argument  in  his 
favor.  Still,  Harold  wished  that  with  Senator  Jack- 
berry  he  could  feel,  as  he  did  with  Dr.  Clark,  he  was 
listening  to  one  from  whose  mere  presence  emanated 
the  aura  of  the  gentleman.  Yet  for  all  this,  Jackberry 
struck  him  as  increasingly  likable. 

Winn,  on  the  contrary,  had  sunk  a  little  from  Har 
old's  first  esteem.  Harold  sensed  a  strong  intuition 
that,  however  admirable  Winn  might  be  as  a  husband, 
father,  or  even  as  a  friend,  his  philanthropy  was  not 
deep-rooted,  like  Dr.  Clark's,  but  a  fad,  and  perhaps 
a  fad  with  a  business  purpose. 

Don  didn't  appear  early  that  evening,  as  he  had 
promised.  So  Harold,  making  a  wry  face  to  himself, 
which  was  his  mode  of  swearing,  reluctantly  under 
took  the  task  of  editing. 

Only  one  who  has  had  much  experience  in  analyzing 
documents  devised  by  experts  in  legal  chicane,  could 
completely  grasp  the  first  effect  made  on  Harold  by 
Jackberry's  involutions  and  interminable  qualifications 
of  statement. 

As  Harold  pondered  over  it,  all  alone,  reading  a 
few  closely-typewritten  pages  and  then  turning  back  to 
reestablish  connection,  he  felt  himself  becoming  stupider 
and  stupider,  and  grew  angry  with  a  sense  of  baffle- 


118  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

ment. 

Nearly  two  hours  he  spent  on  this  labor  of  Sisyphus, 
then  flung  the  bunch  of  papers  half  across  the  room 
onto  a  sofa,  seized  his  hat,  and  fled  out  into  the  moon 
light.  He  walked  in  the  direction  of  Allston  till  tired, 
took  an  open  car  back,  and  found  himself  agreeably 
drowsy. 

Don  had  not  yet  returned,  so  Harold  sought  bed 
at  once,  determining  to  have  another  and  more  clear 
headed  battle  next  morning  with  Senator  Jackberry's 
"preliminaries  of  organization." 

When  he  summoned  Don  for  breakfast,  with  a  cheer 
ful  halloo,  for  he  had  slept  splendidly  and  was  feeling 
keen  for  a  fresh  encounter  with  the  documents,  no  an 
swer  came  to  his  call.  He  looked  into  Don's  room. 
The  bed  had  not  been  slept  in.  This,  of  course,  had 
happened  before  and  is  likely  to  occur  in  any  re 
porter's  life.  But  this  time  Don's  absence  weighed 
on  his  mind.  He  could  not  repress  a  fear  that  some 
thing  unpleasant  had  happened. 

Harold  returned  to  the  bath-room,  doffed  his  pa 
jamas  and  took  a  long  shower. 

Had  a  sculptor  glimpsed  him  there,  he  must  have 
longed  to  attempt  a  reproduction  in  Parian  marble. 
Fine  as  the  youth's  head  was,  his  body  more  than 
matched  it.  Its  perfect  harmony  recalled  the  Greek 
dream  of  an  Adonis,  pure  and  reluctant  to  be  over 
powered  even  by  the  Goddess  of  Passion  herself. 

Re-nerved  by  the  cold  shower,  Harold  resumed  his 
pajamas,  ate  a  sparing  breakfast,  cleared  off  the  table 
in  the  sitting-room  and  again  entered  the  lists  against 
complicated  chicanery. 

It  was  nearing  noon  before  he  had  finished  his  re 
casting  of  the  preliminary  agreements,  as  to  how  many 
shares  of  preferred  stock  and  what  bonuses  of  com- 


DON'S  FALL  119 

mon  should  be  allotted  to  the  first  suppliers  of  capital ; 
how  much  to  Jackberry  and  Winn;  how  much  should 
be  left  in  the  treasury;  what  powers  the  Board  of 
Directors  were  to  exercise;  and  the  length  of  their 
tenure  of  office. 

The  Constitution  and  By-laws,  another  voluminous 
array  of  pages,  permitted  a  majority  of  the  directorate 
to  create  subsidiary  companies  and  contract  indebted 
ness  for  all  sorts  of  operations,  from  starting  an  end 
less  chain  of  daily  yellow  journals,  almost  to  estab 
lishing  a  line  of  airships  to  the  Andes,  or  running  an 
electric  railway  under  the  ocean. 

What  possibly  could  be  the  significance  of  a  score 
and  more  of  the  singular  provisos  that  Jackberry  had 
contrived  to  insert  amid  copious  circumlocutions  that 
kept  the  mind  going,  like  a  squirrel  in  a  revolving  cage, 
but  never  arriving  anywhere?  As  Harold  paused  at 
noontime  more  tired  than  if  he  had  walked  twenty 
miles,  he  could  scarce  resist  the  notion  that  the  whole 
thing  was  just  a  grim,  elaborate  jest.  Flushed  and 
resentful,  he  leaned  far  back  in  his  chair  and  let  his 
eyes  seek  rest  in  vacancy. 

Out  of  the  corner  most  in  shadow   seemed   to   rise 

on  his  vision,  strained  by  long  intension,   a  face  like 

•••    a    sinister   mask.      It   was    livid,    sombre,   with   puffy, 

bloodshot,  lustreless  eyes   adding  a  sort  of  horror  to 

the  dull-purplish  tint  of  the  sodden  visage. 

The  hall-door  knob  turned;  the  door  was  pushed 
half  open;  something  stood  there  stolidly  hesitant. 

Harold  started,  faced  about,  cried  out:  "Is  that 
you,  Don?" 

No  answer.     Harold  sprang  up. 

Fear — or  the  foreshadow  of  something  stronger — 
held  him  back.  He  conquered  it;  sprang  to  the  door; 
swiftly  pulled  it  wide-open. 


120  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

"Don!"  he  gasped. 

Could  this  be  his  friend,  the  man  who  had  won  his 
confidence  and  deep  respect? 

The  very  features  of  the  man  had  altered.  Some 
body  else  was  looking  out  of  the  horribly  changed 
eyes,  glaring  out  at  vacancy. 

In  Harold's  mind,  supreme  intoxication  had  always 
been  associated  with  the  gutter  in  which,  as  a  shud 
dering  boy,  he  had  seen  some  of  the  overworked,  under 
paid,  underfed  quarrymen  of  Dunkirk  lying  sprawled 
in  the  mire.  That  a  man  might  keep  his  feet  and  yet 
be  helpless  was  a  new  revelation.  Only  by  a  Herculean 
mental  effort  did  Harold  grasp  the  appalling  fact  that 
the  hideous  object  before  him  was  Don,  and  that  Don 
was  insanely  drunk. 

The  Thing  swayed  forward.  Harold,  though  with 
repulsion,  caught  it  in  his  arms.  It  seemed  heavier 
than  so  much  lead,  as  Harold  half  bore,  half  dragged  it, 
into  Don's  room  and  toppled  it  onto  the  bed. 

Physical  reaction  now  set  in.  Don  began  to  breathe 
stertorously.  The  air  about  him  reeked,  nearly  rais 
ing  Harold's  gorge  by  the  rank  odor  that  seemed  almost 
a  visible  thickness. 

Harold  closed  and  locked  the  hall  door ;  then  stood 
gazing  down  at  the  strangely  distorted  face.  His  own 
had  grown  very  pale;  it  looked  cold,  as  if  less  touched 
of  pity  than  disdain. 

It  may  be — Harold's  character  had  not  then  fully 
ripened — it  may  be,  on  his  fine  and  high-bred  face, 
there  showed  a  trace  of  "ignorant  virtue's  proud  in 
tolerance"  ;  for  his  nostrils  quivered  and  his  lip 
curled  up. 

This  passed  soon ;  but  for  full  ten  minutes  he  stood 
inertly  looking  at  Don.  A  dreadful  curiosity  chained 
him  thus.  Then  succeeded  a  numbness.  He  felt  as 


DON'S  FALL 

if  Don,  his  Don,  had  gone  away  forever,  and  some 
other  had  found  inhabitance  in  the  body.  Presently 
Don's  words  came  back  to  memory :  "I'm  a  creature 
of  wounds  that  reopen — of  cicatrices — of  abysses  !" 

Loathing  and  horror  vanished.  Compassion  took 
their  place — an  infinite  compassion  that  ached  in  its 
intensity.  And  now  he  realized  that  he  ought  to  un 
dress  Don  and  put  him  between  covers. 

As  he  stripped  off  all  the  clothes,  no  easy  job, 
and  rolled  the  body  into  bed,  it  seemed  to  him  as  if 
all  the  muscular,  manly  beauty  of  that  body,  even  as 
of  that  face,  had  been  stained  and  distorted,  too,  by 
the  plunge  in  the  vile  abyss  of  alcohol. 

He  returned  to  the  sitting-room,  mechanically  gath 
ered  up  the  legal  papers  littering  the  table,  flung  them 
into  a  hand-bag,  and  started  to  go  out,  forgetting 
for  the  moment  that  he  was  still  in  pajamas. 

Then  he  dressed  himself,  still  with  a  notion  of  leav 
ing  the  scene  for  a  while.  But  a  profound  weariness 
came  upon  him,  and  he  stretched  in  the  reclining  lounge- 
chair,  closing  his  eyes  as  if  to  shut  out  the  stormy 
vision  of  horror.  He  fell  presently  into  an  uneasy 
doze,  from  which  he  was  suddenly  awakened  by  a  hoarse 
voice  calling: 

"Water !     Water!" 

He  brought  a  small  pitcher  to  the  bedside.  Don, 
raising  himself  with  difficulty,  gulped  it  and  murmured 
raucously,  as  he  sank  back  on  the  pillows : 

"Thank  you,  Hal !  That  will  put  me  right  for  a 
spell.  I  was  afraid  this  was  coming — and  you'd  know. 
I  saw  Yetive  yesterday.  Was  it  yesterday?"  His 
hand  went,  as  if  searchingly,  to  his  forehead,  and 
then  down  over  the  still  blood-shot  eyes.  "Yetive  hur 
ried  things  along,  that's  all.  It  was  bound  to  hap 
pen,  anyway,  I  reckon.  Now,  I'll  go  to  sleep  again. 


A  THOUSAND  FACES 

Forgive  me,  Hal!" 

Harold  laid  a  tender  palm  on  the  hot  brow,  sighing. 
Don  turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  and  with  softer,  more 
natural  breathing,  subsided  into  slumber. 


CHAPTER    XV 

The  Conspirators 

HAROLD'S  recast  of  the  Jackberry  formulas  of 
mystification  was  received  by  the  Senator  with 
external  gravity  and  internal  amusement.  To  placate 
his  promoters  by  treating  them  generously,  Harold 
had  largely  increased  the  allotment  of  stock  to  Messrs. 
Jackberry  &  Winn,  in  case  they  succeeded  in  securing 
large  investors  within  sixty  days.  When  Jackberry's 
eye  lit  on  this  addition,  he  had  extreme  difficulty  in 
forbearing  a  chuckle  over  such  a  transparent  incen 
tive  to  rapidity  of  action.  Harold,  who  noticed  him 
lingering  over  this  part  in  his  reading  of  the  revision, 
candidly  spoke  up : 

"I  thought,  Senator,  you  were  a  little  modest,  per 
haps,  in  your  allotment  of  shares  to  yourself  and  Mr. 
Winn  for  services  to  be  rendered.  I  don't  want  to 
be  picayunish  in  any  respect.  I  thought,  too,  that 
perhaps  this  increase  might  inspire  you  to  immediate 
action.  While  I  don't  need  money  for  personal  ex 
penses,  I'm  in  a  heart-breaking  hurry  to  get  hold  of 
a  big  bunch  of  it  as  quick  as  possible,  to  do  things 
with  of  another  sort  altogether !" 

"Ah!"  was  the  Senator's  perfunctory  comment,  his 
vulture  beak  still  dipped  into  Harold's  manuscript  and 
his  eyes  glinting  with  a  grim  merriment  over  his  own 
thoughts. 

"I've  long  wanted  to  improve  the  conditions  of  life 
for  the  world's  workers,"  continued  Harold.  "The 

123 


A  THOUSAND  FACES 

other  night,  Senator,  I  heard  a  speaker  here  in  Faneuil 
Hall  who  stirred  me  all  up ;  made  me  feel  that  the  true 
field  for  a  young  man's  energies  ought  to  be  more 
than  a  local  one.  I'm  going  to  strike  hands  with  the 
Socialists.  I'm  going  to  get  into  the  game,  Senator, 
and  do  my  part  in  the  political  and  mental  awakening 
of  the  people.  The  fight  calls  me.  I  must  get  into  it! 
And  that's  why  I  need  so  much  money  and  need  it  right 
away !" 

"Ah?"  said  the  Senator,  in  a  tone  that  sounded  en 
couragement  to  proceed.  Then  he  added,  after  a 
momentary  pause,  laying  down  his  papers  and  looking 
Harold  square  in  the  face.  "Who  was  the  speaker? 
Our  splendidly  eloquent,  but  nevertheless  thoroughly 
crazy  Revolutionist,  Dr.  George  Clark?  Well,  I  don't 
wonder  much  at  his  effect  on  a  young,  impressionable 
Westerner  like  you.  I've  heard  him,  too.  He's  a 
corker  in  his  way ;  or,  rather  I  should  say,  a  would-be 
uncorker  of  all  the  vials  of  popular  wrath  on  our 
present  system  of  civilization. 

"Between  you  and  me,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  this  isn't,  I 
admit,  the  best  of  all  possible  republics  in  our  best  of 
all  possible  worlds.  No  doubt,  it'll  go  to  pot  with  a 
Hell  of  a  whoop,  some  day.  Yet  I  guess  it  will  last 
our  time,  and  probably  the  time  of  my  young  Jack- 
berries.  Dr.  George  is  a  dangerous  agitator.  With 
the  speciously  practical  plan  of  reconstructing  society 
that  Socialism  proposes,  as  his  apparent  platform,  he's 
the  kind  of  moral  savage,  or  savage  moralist — they 
seem  the  same  thing — who  would  precipitate  chaos. 
Dr.  Clark,  and  men  like  him,  are  more  dangerous,  be 
cause  they're  in  dead  earnest." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  give  him  that  credit !"  an 
swered  Harold. 

"Oh!  we've  got  to  be  fair,"  said  Jackberry  lightly. 


THE  CONSPIRATORS  125 

"What's  the  use  of  denying  things  that  are  so,  or  de 
clining  to  look  a  fact  squarely  in  the  face?  But  what 
you've  just  said  has  switched  me  onto  another  track 
of  thought.  You're  bursting  with  a  new  ambition.  I 
don't  approve  it;  but  it's  no  damn  business  of  mine. 
I'm  not  your  guardian  or  keeper.  If  you  choose  to 
be  a  crack-brained  visionary,  if  you  even  want  to 
finance  Dr.  Clark's  Revolution,  it's  none  of  my  con 
cern,  much  as  I  like  you  and  would  like  to  see  you  go 
on  prospering  practically  and  become  a  multi-million 
aire." 

He  paused,  and  his  eyes  twinkled  good-humoredly. 

"What's  this  preamble  coming  to?"  asked  Harold. 
"Where's  your  new  track  of  thought  carrying  us?" 

"Why,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  answered  the  Senator 
gravely,  "I  foresee,  just  from  casually  glancing  over 
your  editing  of  my  copy,  that  it's  going  to  mean  con 
siderable  time  and  perhaps  cause  some  vexation  of 
spirit  before  we  can  even  begin  to  do  business.  You 
have  your  own  ideas  as  to  methods,  and  you're  naturally 
set  on  them.  I'm  not  blaming  you;  that's  your  privi 
lege.  Now,  a  head  like  yours  that  at  twenty,  or  twenty- 
one,  by  God !  could  evolve  such  an  invention  as  yours, 
must  have  lots  of  other  inventions  locked  up  in  it.  You 
want  a  wad,  quick.  Why  not  sell  this  thing  outright? 
I'll  agree,  in  writing,  to  get  you  a  million  for  it,  and 
I'll  plank  down  as  a  forfeit  ten  thousand  dollars,  all 
the  cash  I  have  in  bank.  If  I  don't  hand  you  a  million 
by  the  first  of  September,  the  invention  is  yours  again, 
and  you're  ten  thousand  in  pocket.  I'll  draw  the  agree 
ment  and  hand  you  the  check  right  now,  if  you  say 
the  word." 

Harold  was  not  even  grazed  by  the  golden  arrow. 
Instead,  he  continued  calmly : 

"Senator,  if  you  can  raise  a  million  for  me  in  such 


126  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

a  way,  by  September,  why  shouldn't  you  also  be  able 
to  raise  a  million  for  starting  the  manufacture  on  a 
big  scale,  and  hand  me  half  of  it?  Instead  of  the 
amount  of  stock  now  estimated  by  you  as  necessary 
to  offer  the  men  who  back  us,  I  will  give  them  a  quarter 
interest;  that  is  to  say,  five  millions  of  preferred  stock 
for  a  million  in  cash,  half  of  which  will  go  right  into 
the  business.  I'll  take  half  the  cash  and  give  you  a 
hundred  thousand  for  your  services,  plus  half  a  mil 
lion  in  stock.  I'll  give  Mr.  Winn  half  as  much  in  cash 
and  stock,  if  he  helps  you  in  this  deal.  The  rest  of 
the  stock,  barring  my  controlling  interest,  namely, 
about  four  and  a  quarter  millions,  I  will  agree  to  leave 
in  a  pool  to  be  bought  within  six  months  by  any  of  the 
original  backers  or  promoters,  at  twenty-five  cents  on 
the  dollar,  the  residue  to  go  to  the  general  public  at 
fifty  cents  on  the  dollar  for  pro  rata  division  among 
the  original  stock-holders.  How  does  that  strike  you? 
Isn't  it  perfectly  feasible?" 

The  Senator  tossed  back  his  head  and  chortled. 

"It's  alluring,  all  right!"  he  answered.  "I'm  not 
saying,  right  off  the  reel,  it  might  not  be  feasible.  A 
proposition  for  men  to  put  up  a  million  cash  to  own  a 
big  thing  entirely,  or  almost  entirely,  isn't  out  of  the 
ordinary  business  order,  big  as  it  seems.  A  propo 
sition  for  men  to  invest  haK  a  million  to  be  applied 
strictly  for  manufacturing  and  operating  expenses, 
they  to  receive  an  eighth  interest,  or  two  and  a  quar 
ter  millions  in  stock,  for  their  cash,  with  a  controlling 
vote  in  the  directorate,  as  a  safeguard,  while  their  cash 
is  being  expended — the  way  we  mapped  our  campaign 
before  you  got  a  new  notion — is  quite  within  the 
bounds  of  business  order.  But  to  induce  men  to  hand 
over,  besides  half  a  million  for  foundational  expenses, 
another  half  million  as  a  premium  to  an  inventor,  who 


THE  CONSPIRATORS  127 

retains  a  controlling  interest,  is  a  proposition  quite 
beyond  the  scope  of  common  experience,  and  which, 
you'll  pardon  my  frankness,  would  impress  the  vast 
majority  of  prospective  investors  as  nervy — very 
nervy.  Still,  it  might  be  put  through.  Only,  it  would 
probably  take  a  deuce  of  a  lot  of  time ;  and  you  are  in 
a  hurry ;  and  so  am  I,  and  all  the  rest  of  us  uneasy 
Americans,  for  that  matter." 

"I  suppose  we  arc  all  of  us  altogether  too  much  in 
a  hurry,"  assented  Harold. 

"Beyond  a  doubt !"  replied  the  Senator.  "It  doesn't 
pay,  in  the  long  run.  Though  I  work  like  an  engine, 
when  I  do  work,  I  miss  no  opportunity  to  relax  a  little, 
and  go  slow,  or  go  to  my  clubs.  I  don't  propose  to  die 
before  my  time.  No,  sir,  not  I !  Most  of  us  Ameri 
cans  remind  me  of  a  boy  named  Joe  Baker  I  once  knew 
in  Medn'eld.  He  was  overheard  one  morning,  as  fol 
lows  :  'I  want  my  bread  and  butter,  and  I  want  the 
butter  thick,  and  I  want  jam  on  it,  and  if  I  don't  get 
it  quick,  I'll  holler!" 

Harold  laughed.  The  Senator  was  really  such  a 
jolly,  entertaining  fellow,  after  all,  that  his  voluminous 
and  intricate  sentences,  when  composing  legal  docu 
ments,  might  be  cheerfully  forgiven.  But  now  Harold 
returned  to  the  business  at  issue. 

"Tell  me,  Senator,"  he  inquired,  "what's  the  use  of 
our  getting  pioneers  to  create  subsidiary  companies 
and  perform  so  many  functions  widely  beyond  the  scope 
of  our  fundamental  business?" 

The  lawyer's  answer  was  ready. 

"That's  foresight,  based  on  experience,  my  young 
friend.  You  see,  the  time  might  come,  when  we  should 
find  it  advisable  to  undertake  some  particular  branch 
of  business  in  order  to  prevent  some  smart  Alec  from 
jumping  in  and  holding  us  up  for  exceeding  our  char- 


128  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

ter  rights.  Or  some  chap,  organizing  in  opposition 
with  a  new  invention,  might  give  us  no  end  of  trouble 
before  we  could  squelch  him." 

"Oh!  I  begin  to  see.  Well,  Senator,  let's  try  to  ar 
rive  at  something  speedily,  at  any  rate.  Suppose  you 
take  a  day  to  think  over  my  latest  proposition.  I  see 
it  appeals  to  you." 

"It  does.  Anything  nervy,  anything  western,  always 
did.  I'll  confer  with  Winn  about  it.  I'll  'phone  him 
over  here  this  afternoon.  Maybe,  he's  got  some  chaps 
on  his  line,  already,  to  whom  he's  given  an  inkling  of 
the  bigness  of  this  thing  we  have  right  here  in  my  safe, 
to  be  examined  by  men  who  mean  business.  Winn's  a 
rapid  mover.  I'd  not  be  a  bit  surprised  if  he  already 
had  two  or  three  nibbling  at  the  bait— keen  to  have 
a  peek,  anyway,  soon  as  we  say  'Ready !'  and  raise  the 
curtain." 

The  Senator's  metaphors  were  mixed,  but  his  man 
ner,  and  the  suggestion  of  Winn's  possible  activity  as 
an  advance-agent,  encouraged  Harold,  who  now  rose, 
feeling  that  he  must  not  consume  too  much  of  the  Hon. 
Jacob  Jackberry's  precious  time  in  mere  talk. 

Next  afternoon  another  conference  was  held,  with 
about  the  same  results.  Nothing  definite  was  agreed 
on;  but,  in  confirmation  of  the  Senator's  guess,  Winn 
admitted  that  he  had  "in  a  guarded,  a  very  guarded, 
way,  let  leak,  to  some  big  men,  that  a  certain  western 
inventor — a  genius — with  Senator  Jackberry  and  him 
self,  had  a  hen  on,  whose  hatch  was  likely  to  astound 
the  industrial  world,"  and  that  the  big  men  "wanted 
to  have  a  peep  at  the  eggs  of  the  hen  aforesaid."  Jack- 
berry  grinned  his  approval  of  the  fine  legality  of  the 
phrase,  "hen  aforesaid,"  and  Harold  felt  pleased  with 
the  outlook.  Evidently,  after  all,  they  meant  to  let 
no  grass  grow  under  their  feet. 


THE  CONSPIRATORS  129 

The  following  day  brought  up,  for  consideration, 
Jackberry's  re-editing  of  Harold's  laborious  emenda 
tion  of  the  first  batch  of  preliminary  agreements. 

"The  Universal  Power  Company,"  Jackberry  pro 
posed  to  christen  it,  instead  of  "The  Fitzgerald  New 
Force  Company,"  or  "The  Geo-Kinetic  Company." 
This  latter  was  a  name  Harold  had  under  considera 
tion,  because  his  invention  embraced  the  mechanical 
application  of  the  discovery  of  a  new  element  of  power, 
subtler  and  more  easily  manageable  than  electricity, 
inherent  in  certain  areas  of  earth,  and  capable  of 
condensation  or  pressure  into  small  slabs,  or  briquettes, 
of  intense  and  almost  inexhaustible,  radio-activity — like 
radium,  only  more  vigorous — to  supply  operative  en 
ergy  to  all  imaginable  forms  of  machinery. 

"The  Neo-Geo-Kinetic  Company"  was  finally  agreed 
upon,  Jackberry  adding  the  "Neo"  so  that  the  name 
should  signify  "The  New  Earth-Power  Company."  The 
Senator's  closing  argument  was  that  people  liked  a 
name  which  could  be  easily  brevified  and  snappily  ut 
tered. 

"They'll  drop  the  'Kinetic'  part  of  the  combination," 
said  he,  "and  soon  be  talking  about  the  'Neo-Geo'  and 
the  wonders  it  achieves.  Then,"  he  added  with  a  grin, 
"will  be  the  time  for  us  to  re-organize  and  vastly  in 
crease  the  number  of  shares,  so  that  every  mother's 
son  in  the  country,  with  a  few  dollars  to  spare,  can 
buy  a  little  of  it." 

"That  would  be  grand !"  cried  Harold  enthusias 
tically.  "It  would  democratize  the  possession,  and  the 
people  at  large  would  feel  that  they  owned  the  'Neo- 
Geo'  with  all  its  present  and  potential  blessings,  just 
as  they  already  feel  they  own  the  Government." 

"Which  they  don't,"  remarked  Jackberry  sardoni 
cally.  "But  the  illusion,  however,  is  beneficial  to  the 


130  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

few  who  do." 

He  showed  no  outward  sign,  but  was  vastly  amused 
inside  at  Harold's  interpretation  of  his  purely  greedy 
suggestion  of  a  future  re-organization  and  multipli 
cation  of  shares.  Winn,  however,  gave  tongue  in  key, 
for  he  said  with  extreme  unction,  summing  up  his 
blandest  benevolence :  "Excellent  ultimate,  indeed,  Mr. 
Fitzgerald,  as  you  truly  say ;  for  that  would  be  a  prac 
tical  philanthropy  on  a  scale  almost  colossal." 

"Voted  unanimously,  then,"  cried  Jackberry,  "that 
we  shall  be  popularly  called  'The  Neo-Geo,'  and  of 
ficially  'The  Neo-Geo-Kinetic  Company.'  So  much,  at 
least,  may  be  considered  settled.  Now  for  the  next 
point !" 

The  next  point  ended  in  a  long  argumentation  in 
which  Winn  sometimes  took  one  side,  sometimes  an 
other,  a  sort  of  shuttlecock  batted  from  Harold's  cor 
ner  to  Jackberry's,  with  rather  surprising  celerity. 
This  point  failed  of  settlement,  that  day. 

Thus  the  game  went  on  for  a  fortnight  with  nothing 
agreed  upon  beyond  the  name  and  about  half  of  the 
Constitution  and  By-Laws.  Jackberry  and  Winn,  how 
ever,  had  introduced  two  gentlemen  from  Lynn,  said 
to  have  millions  on  tap.  After  seeing  the  machine  in 
operation,  drawing  power  from  its  briquette  just  by 
contact  of  a  little  copper  wire,  they  gravely  declared 
it  looked  good  to  them,  and  that  they  might,  if  certain 
concessions  were  made,  undertake  to  furnish  the  capital. 

They  were  particular,  however,  in  stipulating  that 
control  of  the  voting  powers  of  the  Board  of  Directo 
rate  must  be  lodged  in  their  hands  for  a  period  of  at 
least  ten  years.  Finally  they  came  down  to  five,  with 
a  proposal  that  Harold,  as  president  of  the  Company, 
should  have  a  salary  of  $15,000  a  year  during  that 
period,  arid  the  other  directors,  seven  all  told,  a  salary 


THE  CONSPIRATORS  131 

of  $7,500  each,  with  a  lien  on  first  profits. 

This  did  not  appear  unreasonable  to  Harold;  al 
though  such  a  salary  list,  by  virtue  of  the  lien  involved, 
constituted  a  debt  of  nearly  half  a  million  against 
the  company ;  and  if  its  affairs  were  mismanaged  by  the 
directorate  during  the  first  year,  complications  might 
ensue,  which  would  enable  the  directorate  to  readjust 
matters  so  as  to  secure  a  great  deal  more  of  the  stock. 

He  demurred  at  vesting  the  control  of  the  business 
in  a  directorate  the  majority  of  whom  he  could  not 
rely  upon  as  personal  friends.  He  did  not  feel  sure 
of  Jackberry  or  Winn,  and  wanted  Dr.  Phillips,  with 
Don,  in  whose  trustworthiness  [despite  the  recent  ter 
rible  revelation  of  alcoholism]  he  firmly  believed,  and 
perhaps  Dr.  Clark,  if  that  gentleman  could  be  in 
terested,  to  constitute  with  himself  the  majority  of 
the  directorate. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  the  two  gentlemen  from 
Lynn  were  lay-figures,  henchmen  of  Jackberry,  drilled 
to  play  their  present  parts,  just  as  they  had  often 
been  drilled  to  give  false  witness  in  trials  where  it  had 
been  quite  safe  to  use  them. 

After  a  long  conference  on  a  very  hot  day,  Jack- 
berry  pressed  him  to  sign  some  papers  purporting 
to  be  an  agreement  as  to  the  directorate  along  Harold's 
own  lines,  with  a  proviso  that  in  case  the  parties  ready 
to  furnish  the  money  should  retire  and  others  take 
their  place,  the  stock  to  be  assigned  to  them  should  be 
put  into  a  pool  with  Jackberry  as  trustee ;  and  that 
any  new  set  of  investors,  constituting  only  three- 
sevenths  of  the  directorate,  should  have  the  privilege,  if 
dissatisfied  with  the  way  things  were  going,  of  having 
any  matter  settled  by  arbitration.  Harold,  thoroughly 
tired,  was  very  much  tempted  to  yield. 

He   had    also   been   under   a  pressure   which  is    one 


132  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

of  the  commonest,  simplest,  and  therefore  least  sus 
pected  trick  of  business  adventurers  of  the  Winn  and 
Jackberry  tribe.  He  did  not  notice  that,  at  every  con 
ference,  the  chair  in  which  he  sat  was  usually  central, 
or  medial  on  the  circle,  of  the  group  who  were  arguing 
points  with  him,  so  that  the  gaze  of  all  was  combinedly 
focussed  upon  him. 

Nor  did  he  note  the  still  more  influential  fact  that 
the  chairs  occupied  by  the  others  had  higher  seats 
than  his  own,  so  that  they  were  looking  down  at  him, 
whilst  he,  without  knowing  it,  had  to  be  continually 
looking  up  a  little,  and  often  lifting  his  upper  eyelids 
unconsciously.  This  tires  the  eyelids,  makes  them 
droop  over  the  eyes  and  induces  mechanically  a  kind  of 
drowsiness,  akin  to  a  preliminary  condition  favorable 
to  hypnotism ;  and  gradually  dulls  resistive  energy 
through  contention  with  a  physical  drawback.  Thus,  in 
some  degree,  it  weakens  the  resistance  of  the  will. 

In  couple  with  the  focussing  of  several  pairs  of  eyes, 
upon  one,  this  mere  mechanical  trick  is  often  ultimately 
very  effective.  If  it  does  not  succeed  in  lulling  the 
intellect  considerably  and  putting  it  off  its  guard,  it 
is  likely  to  effect  such  an  unease  in  fighting  off  re 
peated  slight  attacks  of  drowsiness  or  dullness,  that 
at  last  the  victim  assents  to  some  proposal  recurrently 
insisted  upon,  which  he,  at  the  beginning  of  the  ses 
sion,  would  have  had  naught  of ;  gives  irritable  assent, 
complete  or  partial,  just  to  get  rid  of  the  thing  or 
have  it  out  of  the  way. 

This  influence  now  almost  overmastered  Harold.  But 
presently,  by  a  violent  effort  of  the  will,  he  suddenly 
pushed  away  the  temptation  besetting  him  to  sign  the 
proffered  papers,  announced  decisively  that  he  would 
sign  nothing  till  Dr.  Phillips  was  on  the  spot,  and  de 
clared  that  he  would  telegraph  Phillips  to  come  at  once. 


THE  CONSPIRATORS  133 

He  added,  rather  ungraciously: 

"Senator  Jackberry,  I'm  growing  so  tired  of  all  this 
beating  about  the  bush,  when  I'm  ready  to  make  so 
many  persons  independently  rich,  that,  if  we  can't  do 
things  my  way,  I'll  be  tempted  to  make  a  present  of  this 
invention  to  the  Government,  and  quit  inventing.  This 
difficulty  and  delay  is  getting  on  my  nerves.  Honor 
bright,  Senator,  I  hardly  slept  a  wink  last  night  or  the 
night  before." 

"I  don't  blame  you  a  damn  bit  for  being  annoyed," 
replied  Jackberry  amiably.  "My  advice  is,  go  and 
forget  it  till  Phillips  arrives.  Let's  come  round  to  the 
Club  and  crack  a  small  bottle,  then  you  take  my  auto — 
I  shan't  need  it  today — and  spin  Miss  Winn  out  to 
Norumbega  Park.  That'll  tone  up  your  nerves.  Then 
take  a  swim  tonight  at  one  of  the  clubs  where  you're 
put  up — the  Athletic's  a  good  place — and  you'll  sleep 
like  a  top  and  wake  up  a  new  man !" 

Winn  and  the  supposed  money-magnates  from  Lynn 
laughed  in  chorus ;  and  Harold,  a  bit  ashamed  of  his 
irritability,  replied:  "I'll  take  part  of  your  advice, 
anyway,  Senator.  I'll  borrow  your  auto,  and  ask 
Mrs.  Winn's  permission  to  carry  off  her  daughter  for 
a  couple  of  hours." 

He  shook  hands  all  round,  and  the  Senator  handed 
him  a  hastily  scribbled  order  on  the  garage.  When  he 
had  gone,  the  millionaires  from  Lynn  melted  away,  in 
obedience  to  a  nod  from  the  Senator. 

Jackberry  and  Winn,  left  alone,  looked  each  other 
full  in  the  eyes.  Jackberry  locked  the  door  and  then, 
from  the  private  cabinet  in  his  desk,  produced  a  bottle 
and  two  glasses.  Winn  began  to  shake  his  head, 
thought  better  of  it,  and  tossed  off  a  stout  drink  of 
brandy,  neat. 

"Have  some  fizz  for  your  next?"  asked  the  Senator, 


134  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

producing  a  siphon.  Winn  held  out  his  empty  glass. 
The  Senator  gave  himself  twice  as  much  brandy  in 
a  tall  glass,  and  squirted  in  a  little  soda,  as  if  it  were 
something  to  be  used  charily.  Having  gulped  this,  he 
composed  another  to  sip,  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
regarding  Winn  very  intently,  as  though  sizing  up  his 
nerve. 

"Does  it — er — mean  that  we'll  have  to  take — er — 
radical  measures?"  Winn  faltered. 

"Precisely !"  answered  the  Senator.  "Radical  meas 
ures  for  this  radical  pup.  That's  appropriate,  as 
well  as  imperative.  Phillips  realized  it  from  the  kick- 
off.  I,  being  a  very  cautious  and  very  humane  cuss 
in  a  small  way,  thought  the  trick  might  be  turned 
otherwise  by  getting  the  company  formed,  and  then 
snarling  things  up,  and  buying  him  out.  But  this 
cur  wouldn't  be  content  to  back  out;  he'd  put  up  a 
scrap  and  try  to  bite.  All  our  straight  propositions 
he's  turned  down ;  he  won't  sell ;  he  persists  in  his  crazy 
notion  of  controlling  the  stock  and  the  actions  of 
the  directorate." 

"Yes,  and  he's  beginning  to  act  as  if  he  even  dis 
trusted  us,  us,  who  have  been  so  considerate  of  him !" 

Winn  tried  to  grin  virtuously,  but  still  showed  ner 
vousness,  and  held  out  his  glass  again,  into  which  the 
Senator  poured  a  stiffer  dose  of  brandy. 

"Did  you  notice  the  remark  he  let  fall  about  the 
danger  of  a  majority  of  the  directorate  throwing  the 
thing  into  a  receivership?"  asked  Jackberry,  com 
posedly.  "Looks  as  if  he'd  been  picking  up  some  ex 
tra  legal  opinions  somewhere.  We  can't  afford  to 
waste  any  more  time.  He  might  slip  away  from  us. 
He's  a  headstrong  crank;  wants  it  all  his  own  way. 
Legitimate  business  safeguards  don't  seem  to  enter  into 
his  scheme  of  things  at  all.  Damme,  it's  like  trying 


THE  CONSPIRATORS  135 

to  talk  business  with  a  child,  or  a  lunatic!" 

Winn  started  a  little  at  the  word,  brought  out  with 
emphasis,  although  he  had  expected  it. 

"You  mean,  then,  to  take  this  extreme — course?" 
The  last  word  came  in  such  a  scared  whisper  as  to  be 
hardly  audible.  Winn  by  himself  was  a  coward.  Jack- 
berry  wasn't,  except  on  instinct,  when  confronted  by 
a  clearly  superior  force. 

"We  must — you  and  I,  my  dear  Luther — Calvin,  I 
mean- — with  his  great  and  good  friend,  Dr.  Phillips ;  we 
must  carefully  have  him  committed  into  the  good  long 
keeping  of  those  who  will  kindly  help  the  poor  young 
Hamlet  of  inventors  to  recover  his  wits,"  said  Jack- 
berry.  "Don't  you  get  pulpy  at  this  stage  of  the  game, 
Winn.  Bless  you,  man,  it's  done  every  day,  in  the  busi 
ness  world.  It's  necessary.  More  than  that,  it  will  be 
doing  a  philanthropic  service  to  society  at  large.  Do 
you  get  me,  Calvin?  Fitzgerald  is  three-quarters  crazy 
now.  Why,  we've  had  his  own  physician's  word  for 
that  long  ago.  He  comes  from  a  cracked  family. 
There's  millions — millions — in  this  invention.  We  can't 
risk  the  loss  of  them !  I've  kept  those  other  fellows 
in  the  background.  They're  getting  restive,  now. 
They  might  put  spies  on  us,  find  our  man,  and  try  to 
deal  with  him  direct.  I  wouldn't  trust  a  bloody  mother's 
son  of  'em.  You  know  that  State  Street  crowd!" 

He  paused  a  minute  to  take  a  sip.  Winn  grunted 
assent. 

"I  was  willing  enough,  Cal,  to  try  and  see  whether 
this  thing  couldn't  be  swung  on  the  level,  or  there 
abouts,  but  it  can't,"  he  presently  resumed.  "The 
pup's  a  scrapper.  We've  got  to  play  the  game  now 
according  to  the  top  rule  of  business,  or  get  out  of 
the  shuffle — licked  before  the  start,  because  we're  cow 
ards.  I'm  not  that,  anyway,  by  God !  We'll  get  hold 


136  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

of  this  thing  ourselves,  then  negotiate  with  State  Street, 
and  put  Tom  Lawson  on  the  sick-list  before  long.  But 
we've  got  to  act — now — now,  Calvin,  do  you  hear  me?" 

"Don't  speak  so  loud,  for  God's  sake,  Senator!  I'm 
not  deaf!"  expostulated  Winn,  glancing  about,  with 
trepidation. 

"Here's  a  letter  from  Phillips  I  haven't  shown  you," 
said  Jackberry.  "It  came  late  yesterday.  See,  it  says 
Fitzgerald  has  written  him  about  vexatious  delays  and 
hints  that  if  the  matter  isn't  settled  mighty  soon,  he 
has  other  plans.  Don't  you  see  it's  financial  suicide 
for  us  to  drop  out  now  and  let  him  get  the  capital 
interested?  And  here's  another  letter  from  Phillips, 
this  morning.  Says  he  has  written  Fitzgerald  that 
he's  coming  here  at  once,  to  join  in  a  delicate  opera 
tion.  'Delicate  operation'  is  good !  Ha !  Ha ! 

"Now,  as  soon  as  Phillips  comes,  we'll  carry  this 
business  through,  quietly,  without  the  least  fuss.  Phil 
lips  has  always  known  it  must  come  to  this,  but  wanted 
us  to  be  on  such  friendly  terms  with  Fitzgerald  that, 
if  it  ever  should  be  aired  in  court,  it  would  look  right, 
all  round.  Phillips  has  a  good  head;  would  have  made 
a  fine  lawyer.  With  Fitzgerald  out  of  the  way,  the 
rest's  a  cinch!  Of  course,  Calvin,  it'll  only  be  for  a 
few  years — we  don't  mean  murder,  man — and  then  we'll 
bring  about  his  release.  By  that  time  his  half-baked 
anarchist  notions  will  have  been  swatted  out  of  him, 
and  it  won't  be  dangerous,  won't  be  unphilanthropic, 
Calvin,  to  let  him  loose  again  on  society !" 

Jackberry  refreshed  himself  with  another  swallow, 
and  leaned  back  with  satisfaction.  He  seemed  to  have 
said  his  say.  Silence,  a  few  moments.  Winn  was 
looking  at  his  pal  in  a  sort  of  fear-tinged  admiration. 
His  rather  apoplectic  face,  despite  the  two  drinks  he 
had  taken,  had  become  a  shade  less  ruddy,  and  his  fat 


THE  CONSPIRATORS  137 

fingers  twitched  a  little,  as  Jackberry  contemptuously 
noted. 

"How — can  it — be — arranged?"  he  finally  asked,  his 
voice  trembling. 

"Nothing  simpler!"  replied  he  of  the  vulture  face, 
quite  nonchalantly.  "It'll  be  a  mere  matter  of  detail, 
after  Phillips  gets  here  and  takes  Fitzgerald  in  tow  as 
his  best  friend,  and— physician." 

"Oh,  yes !  I  see !"  assented  Winn  with  relief.  "Yes, 
yes,  there's  Phillips,  to  be  sure,  a  doctor,  like  my 
brother.  Both  good  authorities  on  nerves  and  brains. 
Yes,  yes,  of  course,  we  couldn't  put  the  thing  through 
with  Phillips  left  out. 

Senator  Jackberry  guffawed.  Was  his  unctuous  pal 
really  braced  up  enough  to  be  thinking  the  same 
thought  which  had  once  occurred  to  himself:  the  cruel 
necessity  of  having  to  share  the  loot? 

"I  should  rather  guess  not!"  he  forcibly  ejaculated. 
Then  he  added,  rising  from  his  chair: 

"Now,  Cal,  old  man,  let's  come  over  to  the  Club  and 
stir  our  brandy  into  better  circulation  through  our 
system  with  a  little  of  the  fizz  that  looks  and  whispers 
like  gold!" 


Strange  Meetings 

ON  Harold's  return  from  motoring  with  Miss  Winn, 
a  really  nice  girl  who  had  no  sinister  intentions 
of  adding  his  scalp  to  her  belt,  but  felt  a  frank  friendli 
ness  for  him,  he  found  the  letter  from  Sydney  about 
coming  to  Boston  "to  join  in  a  delicate  operation,"  and 
was  well  pleased. 

This  letter  seemed  to  him  as  if  Providence  were  tak 
ing  a  hand  in  a  fresh  deal  and  making  it  natural  that 
Sydney  should  come  to  his  rescue,  from  what  he  had 
begun  to  feel  was  a  gigantic  web  of  business  being  im 
placably  spun  about  him. 

He  rejoiced  to  feel  that  he  had  never  for  an  instant 
suspected  Sydney  of  designedly  exposing  him  to  cap 
ture  in  the  meshes,  business  and  social,  of  Jackberry 
and  Winn.  Sydney  was  not  to  blame  for  their  attitude 
of  mind  or  the  vexatious  delays.  Sydney,  his  opti 
mism  cried  out,  would  speedily  bring  them  to  terms, 
so  that  the  organization  of  "The  Neo-Geo"  might  pro 
ceed  as  a  bound  into  the  light,  instead  of  being  a  leap 
in  the  dark. 

So  Harold  hastened  to  the  nearest  telegraph  booth 
and  wired  impetuously:  "Come  at  once.  I  need  you 
very  badly.  Almost  a  case  of  brain-storm." 

How  terrible  a  surprise  would  Harold  have  experi 
enced,  had  he  been  able  to  see  and  to  interpret  the  evil 
smile  that  lighted  up  the  physician's  face  at  sight  of 
that  fateful  word :  "Brain-storm !"  For  what  better 

138 


STRANGE  MEETINGS  139 

cumulative  evidence  could  there  be,  than  that  self-reve 
latory  telegram  offered  of  its  author's  mental  infirm 
ity?  Here  to  the  Doctor's  hand  was  a  statement,  by 
Plarold  himself,  of  standing  on  the  brink  of  the  abyss 
— a  plea  for  help.  What  a  bonanza ;  what  a  boon ! 

That  proneness  to  superstition,  concealed  in  most 
of  us,  a  touch  of  which  Harold  showed  in  his  feeling  at 
receipt  of  Sydney's  letter  in  so  pat  a  chime  with  his 
desire,  had  its  counterpart  in  the  musings  of  Sydney 
Phillips  when  he  put  that  unexpected  treasure  of  a 
telegram  into  his  wallet,  and  rebuttoned  his  Prince  Al 
bert.  He  trod  more  alertly  now,  head  high-poised,  and 
at  once  began  preparations  for  his  journey. 

So  then,  the  hour  had  struck  at  last !  Fate  was  call 
ing  him  to  Boston  in  golden  tones — to  Boston,  where 
he  knew  a  woman  was  awaiting  him,  as  well  as  fortune, 
thrice  lucky  Sydney  Phillips ! 

A  woman!  Barbara  Avery?  Ah,  no!  The  Doctor 
had  almost  forgotten  that  such  a  person  had  ever  ex 
isted  or  ever  held  any  lure  for  him.  He  was  enamored, 
this  time,  of  a  fitting  life-mate. 

This  superbly  sensuous  goddess  of  his  dreams,  whom 
he  had  long  known  and  hoped  in  vain  to  possess,  had 
come  back,  at  last,  into  pourparlers  with  him;  for  he 
had  told  her  that  fortune  unlimited  lay  just  ahead. 
So,  Vampire  that  she  was,  she  now  was  waiting  in  Bos 
ton  for  him,  and  she  was  to  be  his  as  soon  as  he  could 
take  her  on  a  splendid  trip  around  the  world ;  these 
were  the  terms  of  sale  and  barter. 

Her  name  was — Yetive  Soule. 

As  the  hour  approached  when  Sydney  Phillips 
should  be  due  in  Boston,  Harold  invited  Don  to  go  with 
him  to  the  station. 

"Sorry  not  to  be  on  deck  to  greet  your  frien^  and 
make  him  mine  too,  but  I've  got  to  square  myself  at 


140  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

the  office,"  the  reporter  declined. 

Noting  a  sombre  look  overspread  Don's  face,  Har 
old's  eyes  asked  an  anxious  question  which  Don  an 
swered  gravely:  "Don't  worry  about  me,  old  man! 
If  I  go  wrong  again,  I'll  have  Dr.  Clark  straighten 
me  up.  It  wouldn't  be  the  first  time,"  he  added  grimly. 

"Is  there  any  reason  for  supposing  that  you  will — 
again?" 

Harold's  tone  was  full  of  pain.  With  a  note  of 
pleading,  Don  placed  his  hand  on  Harold's  arm. 

"When  the  spells  come  on  me,"  said  he,  "the  Brush 
you  know  has  gone  out  of  my  body  and  some  one  else 
—a  Caliban,  a  beast — is  in  control.  You  can't  reason 
or  argue  with  him — no  use  to  try —  — !"  He  paused, 
then  turned  on  his  heel  with  an  abrupt :  "I'll  see  you 
later,  my  lad,  when  I'm  sure  of  myself." 

Harold  watched  him  for  a  moment,  his  heart  con 
tracting  at  the  droop  in  Don's  shoulders,  then  turned 
his  footsteps  toward  the  South  Station.  "Three  hours 
late,"  said  a  placard.  Harold,  considering  how  to 
spend  that  interval,  took  a  car  up-town,  remembering 
a  much-advertised  National  Art  Exhibit. 

He  was  not  sorry  for  his  choice.  The  exhibit  proved 
remarkable  for  its  variety  and  high  range.  The  public 
interested  him,  too,  as  it  grouped  here  or  there  about 
a  picture  for  earnest  discussion  of  its  merits. 

In  Room  Two  he  stood  for  a  while  before  some  stud 
ies  of  beautiful  women.  His  enjoyment  of  the  beauty 
of  this  mere  paint  led  him  to  reflect,  with  fresh  won 
der,  that  at  his  age  he  still  was  heart-whole  and  fancy- 
free. 

He  had,  of  course,  been  possessed  by  boyish  expec 
tations,  by  visions  of  the  dawning  of  the  only  girl  in 
his  life ;  and  in  those  years  when  his  invention  was  in 
travail  to  be  born,  he  had  hoped  ardently  that  he  might 


STRANGE  MEETINGS  141 

be  already  successful  before  she  should  come.  Then, 
almost  imperceptibly,  she  had  slipped  out  of  his  mind, 
nor  could  he  say  at  what  precise  hour  she  had  ceased 
to  inhabit  his  house  of  dreams.  He  only  knew  that  it 
had  strange  tenants  now.  Gaunt,  big-eyed,  wistful  chil 
dren  looked  out  of  its  windows,  watching  for  his  com 
ing  ;  exploited,  labor-broken  workers,  crushed  and  man 
gled  miners,  hopeless  old  men  and  patient,  slaving 
women — a  thousand  faces,  all  appealing,  all  beseeching 
help.  And  over  and  over  again  he  felt  himself  strain 
ing  toward  those  people  in  his  dream-house,  and  the 
soul  of  him  cried  out  yearningly,  like  the  god  in  pain 
which  John  Keats  heard  yearning  in  music : 

"I  am  coming — I  am  coming — to  your  help  !" 

Presently  he  turned  from  the  pictured  faces  and  took 
seat  on  a  bench.  In  doing  so  he  became  aware  that 
the  interest  of  the  crowd  seemed  centered  in  a  canvas 
on  the  north  wall.  Unable  to  catch  even  a  glimpse  of 
it  from  where  he  sat,  he  strolled  over  to  it. 

He  gasped  at  sight  of  the  portrait.  Yes,  it  must  be 
she!  There  couldn't  be  two,  so  like.  The  slight  dif 
ference  discernible  lay  in  the  pose  and  garb.  Beyond 
a  doubt  it  was  painted  from  Don's  wife ;  and  the  painter 
must  have  been  an  uncompromising  man  of  genius,  for 
he  had  fixed  on  his  canvas  the  under-hint  of  repellence, 
of  repulsiveness,  amid  the  riot  of  charm,  the  rich  flames 
of  sensuous  allurement.  Even  as  the  hair  seemed  ca 
pable  of  burning  one's  fingers,  the  whole  face,  neck 
and  faintly  glimpsed  breasts  would  be  certain  to  burn 
up  a  man's  heart,  if  ever  he  stooped  to  the  lure. 

Harold  studied  it  calmly.  Ay,  all  was  there  in  per 
fection — the  large  red-hazel  eyes,  black-lashed;  the 
poignantly  vivid,  scarlet  poinsettia  mouth;  the  subtly 
voluptuous  oval  chin  tempting  a  caressive  hand  to  cup 
itself  about  the  beauty  of  that  delicate,  almost  elusive, 


142  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

curve.  Harold  consulted  his  catalogue  for  the  title  of 
the  picture,  with  a  queer  thrill  of  anticipation. 

There  it  was— No.  17— "The  Vampire !" 

Sometimes  we  are  astonished  at  the  apparition  of 
what  we  expect.  In  spite  of  himself,  Harold  was  star 
tled.  The  painter,  daring  as  well  as  uncompromising, 
had  not  balked  at  giving  this  name  to  his  deed  in  color, 
although  it  challenged  memory  and  provoked  compari 
son  between  his  work  and  that  of  Sir  Edward  Burne- 
Jones.  He  had  clearly  recognized  the  characteristics 
of  a  Vampire  in  the  face  of  Don's  wife,  and  had  por 
trayed  her  to  the  life. 

Harold  still  was  at  gaze,  when  a  woman,  tall  and 
with  a  slenderness  that  suggested  a  lily-stalk,  came 
close  to  him,  scrutinizing  the  picture.  She  was  veiled. 
Just  for  an  instant  Harold's  glance  met  hers  through 
the  veil,  and  he  was  conscious  of  a  distinct  physical 
shock,  electric  in  its  intensity.  He  sat  down  on  the 
nearest  bench  and  watched  the  woman  with  overpow 
ering  curiosity. 

It  had  seemed  to  him  that  through  the  meshes  of  the 
disguising  veil  he  had  seen  two  mesmeric  red-hazel  eyes, 
and  his  heart  beat  fast  in  the  sudden  wondering:  could 
this  be  Yetive  herself?  Don  had  said  she  still  was  in 
Boston ;  arid — why,  yes,  of  course — she  had  a  hobby 
for  pictures ;  was  a  model  in  fact,  ambitious  to  be  con 
sidered  a  professional  beauty.  Now  Harold's  excite 
ment  increased,  for  in  order  to  get  a  better  view  the 
woman  had  raised  her  veil. 

She  was,  for  the  bare  moment,  alone  in  front  of  the 
picture,  and  Harold  was  unable  to  see  her  face.  At 
that  minute  her  purse  dropped  and  fell  a  little  back  of 
her.  She  tugged  at  her  veil,  but  it  had  caught.  With 
a  hurried  movement  she  stooped  for  the  purse,  and  for 
a  swift  second  Harold  caught  a  clear  glimpse  of  her 


STRANGE  MEETINGS  143 

face,  three-quarters.  It  was  the  original  of  the  picture 
— no  shadow  of  a  doubt  obscured  that  fact.  Harold 
found  himself  trembling. 

But  was  this  flesh  and  blood  vampire  Don's  former 
wife?  How  could  she  have  sat  for  a  picture  and  let  it 
be  labelled  thus?  One  might  have  supposed  that  she, 
instead  of  taking  it  all  so  serenely,  would  have  stilet- 
toed  the  artist,  and  slashed  the  picture  to  ribbons. 
But  she  still  stood  before  the  picture,  calm  as  a  statue, 
her  veil  now  down ;  and  Harold  continued  to  study  her 
in  combination  with  that  eerie,  uncanny  reproduction 
of  all  her  lithesome  slenderness,  more  alluring  than 
voluptuous  curves.  Yet  for  all  that  slenderness  and 
svelte  allurement,  her  face  was  not  that  of  a  girl.  It 
was  that  of  a  mature,  seductive  woman. 

She  passed  on,  finally,  into  another  room  and  so  did 
Harold.  Trailing  her,  he  noted  that  she  paused  be 
fore  no  pictures  except  those  of  women.  Was  she  com 
paring  them  with  her  own  loveliness?  he  asked;  and 
lost  himself  in  endless  conjectures,  till,  with  a  start,  he 
remembered  the  train  and  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was 
due  in  half  an  hour. 

Reluctantly  he  made  for  the  corridor;  and  in  de 
parting  realized  that  he  must  have  been  reminded  of 
the  train  by  seeing  the  vampire-woman  consult  a  tiny, 
jewelled  watch  and  look  impatiently  toward  the  door. 

They  had  both  been  in  the  last  room.  A  number  of 
people  were  coming  through  the  door ;  and,  as  he 
waited,  he  heard  a  voice  behind  him  softly  cry:  "Syd 
ney  !"  He  turned  involuntarily.  The  vampire-woman 
had  lifted  her  veil.  Sydney  Phillips,  whom  he  was 
just  going  to  meet,  was  clasping  both  her  hands,  his 
face  alive  with  emotion.  He  had  come  in  with  the 
others,  and  he  and  Harold  had  not  seen  each  other. 

Harold,  amazed  and  horrified,  instinctively  slipped 


144  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

into  the  corridor  out  of  their  line  of  vision,  and  stood 
stone-still.  His  thoughts  were  chaos.  Just  what  to 
do  in  this  extraordinary  situation  he  could  not  yet 
decide.  One  thing,  however,  clarified  itself.  This 
woman  might  be  the  original  of  the  Vampire  picture, 
but  she  certainly  could  not  be  Don's  former  wife.  That 
must  be  impossible,  since  Dr.  Phillips  knew  her  with 
such  evident  familiarity. 

To  gain  time  for  reflection,  he  went  back  to  Room 
Two  and  sat  down  on  the  bench  again  in  front  of  the 
Vampire  picture.  He  must  decide  quickly  whether  to 
make  his  presence  known  to  Dr.  Phillips.  Before  his 
mind  was  made  up,  he  saw  coming  through  the  door 
from  an  adjoining  room,  none  other  than  Don  himself. 
Obeying  an  irresistible  impulse,  Harold  arose  and  hur 
ried  toward  him. 

"What  are  you  doing  here,  Don?"  he  asked  nerv 
ously,  trying  hard  to  seem  matter-of-fact. 

"Hullo,"  said  Don,  looking  fagged,  the  blue  circles 
under  his  eyes  making  them  darker  and  wilder  than 
ever.  "I'm  where  I  ought  to  be — covering  this  exhibit 
for  the  morning's  issue.  What's  on  your  mind,  Hal?" 
He  tried  to  smile. 

Harold  came  to  a  second  swift  resolution.  "I've 
been  studying  a  remarkable  picture,"  he  said,  com 
posedly  now.  "Come  and  look  at  it." 

"Ay,  ay,  you're  right — it's  Yetive — it's  my  wife," 
muttered  Don,  a  moment  later. 

Harold,  expecting  every  moment  to  see  the  vampire- 
woman  and  Dr.  Phillips  walk  through  the  door,  said  in 
an  altered  voice: 

"Don — she — is  in  the  furthest  studio.  Come  on! 
Let's  go !" 

But  Don  stood  perfectly  still,  staring  at  Harold. 

"Come,  Don!"  exclaimed  Harold  authoritatively. 


STRANGE  MEETINGS  145 

Don  laughed.  "When  a  lady,  who  has  played  the 
role  of  wife  to  a  man,  happens  to  be  near  after  a 
lapse  of  years,  may  there  not  be  a  quite  pardonable 
curiosity  to  behold  her  once  more?  I  had  only  a 
glimpse  of  her  the  other  day.  I'll  have  a  full  feast  of 
eyes  on  her  now.  I'm  going  to  find  her !" 

He  started  for  the  open  door,  but  Harold  laid  a  firm 
grip  on  his  arm,  and  spoke  swiftly: 

"Don,  she's  with  Sydney — Dr.  Phillips — the  man  I 
was  on  my  way  to  meet.  His  train  was  late.  I  came 
here  to  while  away  a  couple  of  hours.  I  was  looking 
at  her  picture,  when  she  arrived.  I  knew  her  through 
her  veil.  I  was  following  her  movements  out  of  curi 
osity,  when  I  was  amazed,  a  few  moments  ago,  to  see 
Dr.  Phillips  meet  her  here,  as  if  they  were  old  friends. 
I  shudder  for  him,  if  he's  fallen  under  her  spell.  He 
doesn't  know  I'm  here,  and  I  haven't  decided  what 
to  do." 

A  woman  pressed  up  to  look  at  the  Vampire  picture. 
Don,  in  astonishment  at  Harold's  words,  halted  as  if 
thunderstruck.  The  next  second,  Yetive  Soule  on  Dr. 
Phillips'  arm  came  through  the  open  door. 

The  Doctor,  for  just  a  second,  met  Harold's  em 
barrassed  look.  Yetive's  mesmeric  eyes  rested  on  Don 
but  a  moment,  then  were  carelessly  turned  away. 

The  man  who  had  been  husband  to  this  woman  un 
derstood,  as  plainly  as  if  the  words  had  been  spoken 
aloud,  her  swift  facial  expressions  of  surprise,  of  rec 
ognition  and  of  ready  denial  in  ambush. 

Sydney's  glance  at  Harold  had  been  one  of  belated 
though  silent  recognition,  and  Harold  had  compre 
hended.  With  an  imperative  pull  on  Don's  arm  he 
passed  through  the  door,  on  into  the  corridor.  Don 
was  rather  white  and  silent,  as  they  stepped  out  into 
the  street.  But  what  his  thoughts  were,  who  could 
say? 


CHAPTER    XVII 

Two  of  a  Kind 

YETIVE  and  the  Doctor  did  not  tarry  long  in  the 
art-gallery.  Despite  all  his  aplomb,  Phillips  was 
rather  badly  shaken,  and  felt  eager  to  be  in  the  open 
air.  He  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief,  when  he  and  his 
companion  had  safely  reached  the  sidewalk.  As  they 
turned  toward  Arlington  Street,  Yetive  asked  softly, 
"What  did  you  think  of  it?" 

Her  companion's  face  brightened  for  a  moment. 

"Think  of  it?"  he  exclaimed.  "What  could  anyone 
think,  except  that  it's  the  most  beautiful  face  in  the 
world  and,  of  course,  the  most  striking  picture  of  the 
exhibit — but" — his  eyes  lost  their  glow — "what  in 
heaven's  name  did  the  artist  mean  by  calling  it  'The 
Vampire'  ?  Yetive,  I  can't  permit  that !" 

Yetive  laughed  with  a  lightness  that  still  held  some 
bitterness  in  its  melody. 

"My  dear  Sydney,"  she  replied,  "who  gave  you  any 
authority  in  the  matter?  As  for  me" — she  shrugged 
her  shoulders — "I  had  no  choice.  I  was  Henri  de  Sal- 
lier's  model.  He  was  painting  'The  Vampire'  for  this 
exhibit.  Could  I  dictate  the  subject  of  his  picture? 
And  even  if  I  could  have,"  she  said  deliberately,  "I 
wouldn't  have  done  it.  I  was  well  paid  and — I  have  to 
live." 

A  look  of  pain  softened  the  face  of  Sydney  Phillips 
for  the  moment.  His  early  hold  on  Barbara  was  un 
derstandable. 

140 


TWO  OF  A  KIND 

"Yetive,"  said  he  passionately,  "it  won't  be  much 
longer!  You  are  justified  in  demanding  a  background 
of  wealth  for  your  beauty,  your  fine  tastes,  your  artis 
tic  qualities.  This  business  that  has  brought  me  to 
Boston  concerns  you.  Most  of  all  it  concerns  our  fu 
ture,  Yetive,  and  means  a  mountain  of  money,  where 
you  can  sit  enthroned,  secure  forever,  able  to  gratify 
your  slightest  whim !" 

Yetive  turned  eagerly.  "Is  there  any  immediate 
prospect  of  success?  Will  it  come  soon?"  she  de 
manded. 

"Yes,  very  soon,"  he  answered  firmly.  "I  must  leave 
you  almost  at  once,  on  this  very  business.  I  have  an 
appointment  within  the  hour.  My  train  was  late,  as  I 
told  you.  I  expected  to  have  had  the  interview  im 
mediately  after  my  arrival  and  then  to  have  come  over 
here,  where  you  had  appointed  our  meeting.  Not  find 
ing  my  man  at  the  station  I  telephoned  to  his  quarters 
and  left  word  with  the  janitor  there  that  I  would  come 
later.  Then  I  hurried  to  you.  We  must  arrange,  dear 
est,  for  a  private  view  of  the  picture.  I  saw  my  man 
there,  and  he  saw  me,  and  looked  astounded ;  and  it 
rather  threw  me  off  my  balance." 

"What  did  he  look  like?"  Yetive's  tone  grew  sud 
denly  sharp. 

"They  were  in  front  of  your  picture,  near  the 
bench,"  said  Sydney  nervously,  "a  medium-sized,  finely- 
built  chap,  with  reddish  hair,  hair  almost  auburn,  like 
yours — you  must  have  noticed  him,  unless  all  your  at 
tention,"  he  added  with  tender  suggestion,  "was  con 
centrated  on  my  unworthy  self." 

She  flashed  him  an  approving  smile.  He  continued: 
"He  was  in  company  with  a  stouter  man,  who  seemed 
under  a  cloud.  A  loose  rake,  I  should  say,  probably 
the  reporter-friend  he's  written  me  about  several 


148  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

times." 

"I  remember  them  perfectly  now,"  said  Yetive.  "I 
noticed  them  casually,  though  really  I  had  eyes  only 
for  you,  and  my  beautiful  picture."  So  charmingly 
naive  was  her  confession  that  Sydney  thrilled  at  the 
words.  She  continued  carelessly:  "Seems  to  me  I've 
seen  one  of  those  men  before  in  some  corner  of  the 
world;  the  sullen,  drinky-looking  one." 

"Very  likely,"  answered  Sydney.  "Reporters  are 
turning  up  everywhere,  and  men  who  drink  heavily  are 
quite  apt  to  be  nomads." 

"What  are  nomads,  dear?" 

"Wanderers,  vagabonds,  gypsies,  Bedouins — per 
sons  without  fixed  habits,  and  therefore  without  respec 
tability." 

"Oh !"  said  Yetive,  "I  thought  nomads  were  some 
thing  in  chemistry  or  philosophy  or  science,  like  atoms, 
or  molecules,  or  microbes." 

He  laughed  delightedly. 

"My  darling  has  confused  the  word  nomad  with  mo 
nad,  I  guess,"  said  he.  "But  even  your  blunders,  dear, 
are  full  of  charm.  By  my  soul,  what  a  sorceress,  what 
a  perfect  witch  you  are,  little  one !" 

Her  admirer's  oath  both  startled  and  vaguely 
amused  her.  Was  it  possible,  after  all,  there  might 
be  such  a  thing  as  a  soul ;  and  possible  that  Sydney 
had  one,  or  believed  in  such  a  foolish  thing?  She  had 
felt  from  the  first  of  her  experience  with  him  that  he 
was  more  like  herself,  and  therefore  more  potentially 
endowed  with  attractiveness  for  her,  than  any  other 
man  she  had  ever  met.  He  had  interested  her,  indeed, 
so  much  that  she  knew,  were  she  a  very  rich  woman, 
she  would  have  picked  him  as  her  husband;  or,  if  sad 
dled  with  a  rich  husband,  would  have  taken  him  in  tow 
as  her  "Cavalier  Sirbiento,"  a  phrase  whose  meaning 


TWO  OF  A  KIND  149 

she  had  learned  in  Italy. 

"Sydney,"  she  said  languidly,  "here  we  are  at  my 
hotel.  You'd  better  not  come  up  now,  but  keep  that 
appointment.  It  means  everything  to  me,  dear,  as  well 
as  to  you,  that  you  should  make  a  great  big  bunch  of 
money ;  for  I  confess  I  do  like  you  a  little  bit  more  than 
I  ever  thought  I  should  ever  be  able  to  like  any  man. 
Don't  clutch  my  arm  so  tightly !  You'll  make  a  black 
and  blue  spot.  Perhaps,  you  bad  boy,  you're  trying 
to  put  your  brand  on  me?"  She  laughed  lightly,  then 
her  tone  grew  reminiscent.  "The  men  in  my  life,  Syd 
ney — I  shudder  to  think  of  them.  They  have  been 
such  cruel  disappointments !  If  I  had  felt  for  any  of 
them,  as  I  feel  toward  you,  it  might  have  all  been  dif 
ferent.  I  suppose  a  woman  of  refinement  always  must 
begin  by  liking  a  man ;  else  it's  madness  to  try  and  live 
with  him." 

Phillips'  eyes  burned  with  sudden  passion,  as  she 
looked  up  at  him.  She  seemed  about  to  speak  again ; 
but  suddenly  a  feeling  of  lassitude  came  over  her.  All 
she  did  was  give  him  her  hand,  in  farewell.  With  in 
tense  relief  she  reached  her  apartments  and  locked  the 
door  on  the  outer  world. 

What  was  the  cause  of  this  exhaustion?  She  asked 
herself.  Was  it  the  chance  encounter  with  her  former 
husband,  while  listening  to  the  amorous  whispers  of 
another  man?  She  knew  she  had  never  been  in  love 
with  her  husband,  although  at  times  she  had  luxuriated 
in  his  caresses,  as  one  enjoys  a  dinner  after  a  fast.  She 
knew  that  passion  with  her,  whatever  it  might  be  with 
other  women,  was  merely  a  more  or  less  dainty  appe 
tite.  She  had  cared  for  Don  merely  as  a  stepping- 
stone  to  other  things.  Was  he  now  to  re-appear  as  a 
stumbling-block?  No!  she  felt,  as  reflection  continued, 
she  had  slight  need  to  fear  on  that  score ;  yet  his  being 


150  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

in  company  with  the  very  man  Sydney  had  to  meet 
about  business,  made  her  nervous.  She  became  angrily 
aware  that  emotions  were  beginning  to  play  havoc 
with  her  face,  and  that  she  could  not  afford  the  ex 
travagance  of  any  stresses,  except  such  as  were  sen 
suously  pleasurable. 

Had  she  felt  any  pity  for  Don  when  looking  into 
his  eyes  across  the  years  of  silence?  No,  she  knew  she 
hadn't.  But  now  she  began  to  consider  another  point. 
He  had  certainly  changed.  He  was  handsomer  than 
ever,  which  was  queer,  considering  everything;  but 
what  about  him  had  now  become  so  different?  She 
caught  her  breath — she  realized  with  a  start — it  was 
the  look  of  youth  that  had  gone,  and  that,  in  going, 
had  so  changed  the  face ;  the  wonderful  essence  that 
cannot  be  described. 

Was  it  due  simply  to  the  loss  of  her?  This  thought 
gratified  her  vanity,  but  she  put  it  away  as  being  prob 
ably  outside  the  pale  of  likelihood.  Was  it  hard  work, 
or  dissipation?  The  fugitive  streaks  of  silver  along 
his  temples  had  not  escaped  her  ken,  when  she  had  shot 
that  swift  look  at  him.  And  she  wondered  just  now 
what  he  had  been  thinking  when  he  had  met  her  glance. 

The  time  had  been  so  short,  so  fleet,  that  she  had 
not  been  able  to  analyze  his  expression  any  more  defi 
nitely  than  she  could  her  own  feeling  now.  She  rose 
impatiently  and  brought  her  hand-glass  from  her  dress 
ing  table ;  and  with  the  level  afternoon  light  full  upon 
it  she  studied  her  face,  anxiously,  fearfully.  Her  mind 
began  to  be  "borne  darkly,  fearfully  afar" — into  the 
future.  That  look,  that  essence — youth — was  it  still 
there?  Would  it  stay?  Oh!  how  long  would  it  stay? 

With  a  smile  of  deep  relief  she  laid  the  mirror  down. 
So  close  a  simulation  of  youth  was  it,  anyway,  that  it 
would  still  pass  muster,  splendidly.  Her  beauty  was 


TWO  OF  A  KIND  151 

still  incomparable.  She  picked  up  the  mirror  once 
more,  and  stared  greedily.  And  yet — again  that  throb 
of  fear,  with  a  new  and  keener  edge  to  it;  this  match 
less  beauty  had  not  yet  done  for  her  what  she  had 
planned  it  must.  When  had  she  ever  been  free  from 
that  secret  haunt  of  mocking  shadow,  the  proximate 
menace  of  poverty?  Unwittingly  her  mind  traveled 
back  over  the  years.  She  had  never  swerved  from  her 
goal  since  the  day  she  was  counted  sixteen ;  the  day 
she  discovered  her  beauty  for  herself.  She  had  thought 
then  that  it  was  a  magic  talisman  bound  to  open  soon 
the  door  to  fame,  wealth,  power,  luxury. 

A  talisman  it  had  proved.  Yes,  but  even  beauty 
cannot  do  everything,  she  had  discovered  almost  at 
once.  Poverty  had  been  her  terrible  handicap,  though 
she  need  not  have  endured  that  very  long,  had  she  been 
willing  to  give  the  price.  But  she  had  not  been.  She 
had  known,  even  when  so  young,  by  a  wisdom  that 
seemed  uncanny,  the  physical  price  she  must  pay  for 
luxury. 

No,  no,  the  goal  she  had  visioned  had  been  so  large, 
so  brilliant  that  she  could  afford  to  wait !  But,  some 
how,  the  road  to  achievement,  through  poverty,  had 
pi'oved  a  long  and  bitter  one.  And  it  was  then  that  she, 
in  a  moment  of  despairing  weakness,  had  married  Don 
ald  Brush.  He  had  not  shown  himself  over-friendly  to 
her  ambitions,  and  had  been  unable  to  gratify  her 
desires  for  a  suitable  setting  for  her  beauty. 

But  she  had  learned  one  thing.  A  married  name 
gave  her  prestige,  status.  She  had  considered  the  mat 
ter  quite  dispassionately.  Don  was  most  unreason 
able  ;  he  seemed  to  believe  that  she,  Yetj ve  Soule,  should 
think  to  some  extent  of  him  by  way  of  reciprocity — 
think  of  his  comfort  and  happiness.  He  had  been  quite 
absurd  and  youthful  and  sentimental  about  it  at  first, 


152  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

and  she  had  inwardly  raged  at  his  humdrum  stupidity 
and  masculine  egotism.  So  she  had  come  to  a  stout 
decision,  while  Don  had  been  away  in  Europe,  and  had 
told  him  the  very  night  he  had  come  "home."  How 
tragically  he  had  taken  it!  She  smiled.  She  never 
since  had  heard  "La  Paloma"  without  recalling  his 
heroics.  And  then — she  caught  her  breath,  and 
frowned.  Why,  he  was  a  sentimental  fool,  no  doubt, 
but  she  had  not  shown  cleverness  at  all.  Twice  had 
she  made  a  mistake — twice,  and  the  years  going  by 
so  swiftly! 

She  had  been  deluded,  deceived  by  the  man  she  next 
had  married.  He  had  spent  money  lavishly  on  her. 
She  had  supposed  him  rich — had  had  every  reason  to 
do  so.  Then  after  three  months,  he  had  been  killed 
while  riding  horseback — and  she  had  discovered,  too 
late,  that  he  had  wooed  and  won  her  on  borrowed 
money,  and  that  he  hadn't  left  enough  to  bury  himself 
decently.  It  had  been  almost  a  fatal  blow  to  her,  and 
to  her  sublime  ambition. 

A  wave  of  bitterness  surged  over  her,  as  she  recalled 
error  after  error  in  the  years  that  had  followed.  She 
had  seen  women,  with  beauty  not  to  be  compared  with 
hers,  reaching  the  glittering  height  she  dreamed  of; 
and  for  the  thousandth  time  she  tried  to  analyze  the 
reasons  for  her  failures.  Was  it  that  she  lacked  clever 
ness,  magnetism,  imagination? 

For  the  third  time  she  had  made  a  fiasco  of  her 
career,  for  she  had  finally  decided  that,  if  she  were 
ever  to  realize  her  dream  of  bringing  kings  to  their 
knees,  she  must  be  about  that  regal  business  mighty 
soon ;  and  then  it  was  that  she  had  begun  to  travel  the 
road  other  outwardly  beautiful  women  have  so  often 
traveled  and  are  still  traveling — a  harder  road  than  to 
Jordan, 


TWO  OF  A  KIND  153 

An  American  dentist  at  the  Bavarian  court,  whom 
she  had  known  before  his  appointment,  and  whose  at 
tentions  she  had  then  refused,  had  renewed  his  suit,  but 
this  time  without  proposing  marriage.  In  a  weak  and 
desperate  moment  she  had  accompanied  him.  For  she 
had  felt  that,  once  in  Europe,  the  way  would  be  open. 
It  was  he  who  had  first  called  her  a  Vampire  and 
finally  had  flung  her  off  with  stinging  contumely;  and 
she  then  had  drifted  about,  finding  herself  at  Algiers 
once.  Finally,  when  poverty  had  once  more  pressed, 
the  chance  to  visit  Minneapolis  and  pose  for  a  picture 
had  brought  her  back.  The  fruit  of  those  years  abroad 
had  been  many  "experiences,"  bitter  and  sordid  mostly ; 
more  or  less  homage  of  a  crude,  ready  sort;  a  few 
triumphs  and  just  a  little  celebrity  as  "an  American 
beauty."  Her  dream  still  was  a  mirage  in  a  desert. 

In  Minneapolis,  Dr.  Phillips,  physician  to  the  artist 
she  had  posed  for,  had  met  her  by  chance.  He  had 
fallen  a  victim  at  once  to  her  beauty  and  had  proposed 
marriage.  Yetive  had  realized  that  he  simply  wor 
shipped  her  flesh,  but  he  had  attracted  her  by  some 
thing  besides  his  exterior  comeliness,  that  she  did  not 
quite  comprehend,  some  singular  likeness  to  herself. 

She  had  told  him  plainly  that  she  had  endured 
enough  of  poverty  and  uncertainty ;  that  she  would  not 
marry  him,  or  any  other  man,  unless  he  were  very 
rich;  but  that  if,  under  those  conditions,  he  cared  to 
dance  attendance  on  her,  she  had  no  objection.  Her 
liking  for  him  now  came  as  near  being  love  as  it  could 
come,  for  she  had  never  loved  any  one  but  herself;  and 
this  fact  she  was  quite  frank  in  understanding,  al 
though  she  had  been  passionately  and  emotionally 
stirred,  at  times,  during  some  of  her  "episodes."  This 
creature  was  greedy  of  emotion  in  others,  but  not  in 
herself.  Beguilements,  allurements  and  seductive-ar- 


154  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

tistic  plays  at  passion  and  emotion  she  possessed  in 
ready  plenty;  but  real  feeling  was  to  her  utterly  un 
known. 

Yetive  did  not  know  that,  at  the  time  of  her  meeting 
with  Dr.  Phillips,  temptation  had  come  to  him  also  in 
his  meeting  with  the  Fitzgeralds.  She  knew,  however, 
that  he  had  some  colossal  scheme  in  hand  that  might 
mean  wealth,  and  so  inquired  no  further.  For  that  rea 
son  she  had  kept  in  touch  with  him  by  daily  letter, 
after  they  had  parted  and  she  had  gone  to  New  York 
to  pose  for  The  Vampire,  and  later  to  Boston  that  she 
might  see  for  herself  its  reception  by  the  public. 

This  picture,  it  seemed  to  her,  bade  fair  to  do  for 
her  what  her  own  efforts  had  so  utterly  failed  to  ac 
complish — win  her  fame  and  fortune.  Should  Dr.  Phil 
lips'  plans  miscarry,  she  decided  she  would  immediately 
send  him  about  his  business,  if  he  proved  troublesome 
to  her.  Possibly,  she  harbored  the  thought,  he  might 
shoot  himself  for  love  of  her,  and  that  would  surely 
get  into  the  papers.  Famous  beauties  have  been  known 
before  to  travel  over  a  highway  of  dead  men. 

Hours  after  her  musing  at  the  window,  and  after 
she  had  taken  her  bath,  performed  the  sacred  rites  of 
anointing  and  massaging  her  body,  and,  wondering  a 
little  at  Dr.  Phillips'  continued  absence,  had  dined,  she 
returned  to  her  room,  and  was  preparing  for  bed,  when 
the  telephone  rang.  The  message  was  from  Sydney. 
The  affair  that  had  brought  him  to  Boston  had  reached 
an  engrossing  stage,  said  he,  and  he  was  therefore 
unable  to  see  her  that  night.  For  three  days  she  had 
from  him  only  brief  messages  over  the  'phone.  But 
every  day  she  consoled  herself  by  visiting  the  National 
Art  Exhibit,  and  gazing  on  the  picture  that  might  spell 
fame  and  fortune,  even  though  her  liaison  with  Sydney 
Phillips  should  come  to  naught. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

The  Springing  of  the  Trap 

RETURNING  in  profound  perplexity  to  their 
quarters,  after  parting  with  Don,  who  went  back 
to  the  newspaper  to  "concoct  a  critical  hash,"  as  he 
called  it,  Harold  found  a  notification  that  Dr.  Phillips 
had  called  him  up  and  left  word  that  he  would  come 
about  six  o'clock.  Harold  now  began  to  see  the  mys 
tery  dissolving,  to  some  degree.  Clearly,  the  train 
had  made  up  some  lost  time ;  and  Sydney,  on  arrival, 
finding  no  one  there,  had  promptly  telephoned  the 
apartment-house.  Failing  to  reach  Harold  thus,  he 
had  drifted  into  the  Art  Exhibition;  and  there,  doubt 
less  by  pure  chance,  had  lighted  upon  a  former  friend, 
Yetive  Soule.  That  the  woman  happened  to  be  Don's 
ex-wife  was  merely  coincidence.  Hence,  although  with 
some  curiosity  and  some  alarm,  since  he  knew  Yetive's 
seductive  effect  on  most  men,  he  awaited  Sydney's 
arrival. 

At  half  past  five,  Sydney  came.  The  meeting  was 
extremely  cordial.  He  explained  at  once  that  he  had 
chiefly  made  the  journey  in  order  to  superintend  an 
important  operation,  and  added  that  he  sincerely  hoped 
he  might  incidentally  prove  of  service  to  Harold  in 
helping  to  cut  the  business  knot. 

"Not  getting  at  once  in  touch  with  you,"  he  added, 
"I  casually  strolled  into  the  Art  Exhibit,  and  there 
was  pleasantly  surprised  to  meet  a  former  very  charm 
ing  patient."  Sydney  passed  it  off  without  meution  of 

185 


156  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

names,  and  for  the  moment  Harold  forgot  how  famil 
iarly  Yetive  had  said  "Sydney!"  The  plausible  ex 
planation  worked  like  a  charm. 

Dr.  Phillips  explained  that  he  had  really  come  a  day 
earlier  than  the  operation  was  to  be  done,  just  to 
have  plenty  of  opportunity  to  talk  things  over  with 
Harold,  because  he  realized  what  a  confounded  snag 
the  business  appeared  to  have  struck — and  he,  Syd 
ney,  had  become  anxious.  Harold's  pleasure  at  hear 
ing  Sydney  speak  thus  was  as  quickly  in  evidence  as 
the  joy  of  a  child.  It  seemed  so  good,  anyway,  to  see 
Sydney  again!  In  the  conference  that  followed,  Har 
old  told  him  plainly  of  his  growing  distrust  of  Jack- 
berry  and  Winn;  his  belief  that  the  deal  would  fall 
through ;  and  his  determination  to  reconstruct  his 
plans  along  different  lines.  He  also  announced  his  in 
tention  of  returning  to  Minneapolis  with  Sydney,  in 
case  of  any  further  difficulties.  Said  he: 

"I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  set  a  date  for  a  final 
conference,  a  few  days  from  now,  when  things  will  have 
to  be  definitely  settled  one  way  or  the  other;  and  I 
shall  write  Jackberry  this  very  night,  to  that  effect." 

Phillips  at  once  commended  the  decision,  and  said 
he  would  be  unable  to  see  Harold  at  all  the  next  day, 
since  the  operation  would  require  all  his  attention.  But 
he  said  that  meantime  he  would  arrange  by  telephone 
for  a  conference  between  Jackberry,  Winn,  Harold  and 
himself  for  the  day  following  the  morrow,  at  latest. 
Perhaps,  he  hinted,  Harold's  western  way  had  engen 
dered  some  stubbornness  in  the  Senator  or  even  in 
Winn,  whom  he  however  considered  more  plastic  in 
temperament.  Just  possibly,  he,  Sydney  Phillips, 
could  bring  things  to  a  head. 

Harold  began  to  feel  a  bit  ashamed  of  his  vexation 
and  impatience,  and  in  the  exhilaration  of  meeting 


THE  SPRINGING  OF  THE  TRAP        157 

again  such  a  trusted  friend,  it  seemed  now  as  if  every 
thing  were  going  to  come  out  all  right,  after  all.  So 
when  Dr.  Phillips,  at  their  prolonged  dinner,  offered 
a  toast  to  the  successful  outcome  of  their  conference 
on  the  day  after  tomorrow,  Harold  drank  it  with  en 
thusiasm,  and  filled  the  glasses  again  to  pledge  his  dear 
friend.  Just  as  he  had  filled  them  Sydney  started  up, 
leaning  across  the  table  and  looking  intently  over  Har 
old's  right  shoulder,  apparently  at  something  that 
caused  him  unbounded  surprise.  Harold  naturally 
turned  full  round  with  curiosity,  and  for  a  second  the 
right  hand  of  Dr.  Phillips  hovered  over  Harold's  wine 
glass. 

"What  was  it?"  asked  Harold,  turning  about  again. 
"What  startled  you  so,  Sydney?  Not  the  ghost  of  a 
patient,  I  hope?"  he  added,  gaily  lifting  the  glass  to  his 
lips.  "Here's  to  your  health,  dear  Sydney!" 

Phillips  laughed  and  drank  with  him,  quaffed  in  con 
cert,  saying  quite  seriously :  "I  had  a  glimpse,  Harold, 
of  the  very  strangest  face  I  ever  saw — and  I'm  trying 
to  remember,  now,  where  I've  seen  it  before.  For  the 
moment  it  quite  unnerved  me.  I  think  I'll  drink  an 
other  glass  of  wine — what  capital  claret  this  is !  Old 
Sir  Randal  Roberts,  of  sainted  Bohemian  memory, 
used  to  say  there  were  only  four  wines  fit  for  a  gentle 
man  of  lineage  and  fine  taste  to  drink — claret,  bur 
gundy,  madeira  and  champagne.  At  our  next  dinner 
we  must  try  some  madeira,  if  you  will.  Fine  and  fit 
as  the  others  may  be,  I  like  that  best." 

The  next  day,  Wednesday,  Phillips,  Jackberry  and 
Winn  met — not  in  Jackberry's  or  Winn's  office,  but  in 
the  most  private  room  of  a  suburban  hotel  at  which 
each  had  arrived  by  a  different  route. 

They  had  not  seen  each  other  for  nearly  a  dozen 
years,  yet  they  might  have  neighbored  for  a  lifetime, 


158  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

so  thoroughly  did  all  seem  to  be  in  accord  of  purpose. 
Still,  in  the  beginning  of  the  interview,  Winn  showed 
considerable  nervousness  and  interposed  tentative  ob 
jections.  Jackberry  and  Phillips,  from  beginning  to 
end,  were  coldly  methodical.  At  ten  they  met;  at  one 
their  plans  had  been  perfected. 

Phillips,  after  a  few  moments  of  beating  about  the 
bush,  explained  that  Harold  and  he  had  drunk  some 
toasts  the  night  before,  and  that  Harold's  glass  had 
contained  a  globule  whose  first  effect  would  be  to  give 
him  uneasy  sleep  and  make  him  wake  up  headachy,  stu 
pid,  and  vague  and  rambling  in  his  talk.  This,  the 
physician  said,  would  last,  so  far  as  the  intense  head 
ache  was  concerned,  for  thirty-six  to  forty-eight  hours, 
and  give  him  a  cha'nce  as  a  friendly  physician,  when 
he  should  find  Harold  the  following  morning  in 
wretched  condition,  to  prescribe  another  drug  which 
would  serve  their  every  purpose. 

Then,  on  Thursday,  if  everything  went  on  schedule, 
a  private  hearing  before  the  probate  judge  could  be 
arranged.  That  part  of  it  must  be  left  to  Jackberry. 
The  Senator  gave  prompt  assent.  Winn,  who  would 
have  been  as  big  a  villain  as  either  of  the  others,  if  he 
hadn't  been  so  cowardly,  assured  them  (though  he 
looked  pallid  and  glanced  over  his  shoulder  when  he 
said  it)  that  his  brother,  Dr.  Martin  L.  Winn,  would 
lend  his  aid.  He  would  make  the — er — necessary — ah 
— arrangements,  for  Harold's  reception  into  Allan- 
dale  Asylum.  The  matter  could  undoubtedly  be  put 
through  by  Thursday  night  without  the  least  trouble 
or  anxiety.  This  last  assertion  was  made  by  Jack- 
berry,  and  he  suggested  that  everyone  had  better  be 
stir  himself,  as  there  were  many  details  still  to  be 
arranged,  and  in  a  matter  so — well — professionally 
delicate — you  know,  there  must  be  no  hitch. 


THE  SPRINGING  OF  THE  TRAP        159 

"There'll  be  none  to  my  part  of  it,  by  God!"  he 
boasted. 

The  conference  closed  with  the  understanding  that 
the  supposed  business  meeting  on  which  Harold  was 
counting  was  to  take  place  in  Jackberry's  office  as 
usual;  and  that,  after  a  few  protests  and  objections, 
Harold  was  apparently  to  have  everything  his  own 
way,  as  to  the  stipulations  and  signing  of  the  papers. 
Every  major  concession  was  to  be  yielded;  and  ap 
parent  duplicates  of  what  he  first  read  and  signed 
would  be  signed  by  him.  It  would  then  be  proposed 
that  they  all  go  to  a  notary,  or  Master  in  Chancery, 
for  the  signing  and  putting  on  record  of  the  final  agree 
ments.  Instead,  they  would  in  reality  go  to  Judge 
Chambers'  office,  where  the  private  hearing  would  have 
already  been  arranged  to  take  place. 

Inasmuch  as  Harold  was  to  be  under  the  influence 
of  a  powerful  drug,  the  final  agreement  to  be  signed 
would  be  a  fantastic  thing  so  worded  as  to  appear  a 
legal  matter,  but  actually  the  ramblings  of  an  unbal 
anced  mind.  After  they  had  drawn  him  out  to  talk 
foolishly  before  the  Judge,  the  word  of  the  two  physi 
cians,  the  lawyer  and  a  reputable  retired  merchant 
and  philanthropist  like  Winn,  would  be  more  than 
enough  to  commit  Harold,  as  a  person  palpably  de 
mented,  whose  friends  were  alarmed  over  his  condi 
tion. 

Harold's  hapless  fate  thus  was  settled  as  if  he  were 
a  pawn  on  a  chessboard.  At  that  very  hour  he  had 
just  awakened  out  of  a  sleep  oppressed  with  horrors. 
He  called  for  Don,  but  Don  was  not  there.  When  he 
finally  had  bathed  and  succeeded  in  dressing  himself 
he  felt  unaccountably  ill  and  curiously  disinclined  for 
effort  of  any  kind.  All  the  momentary  enthusiasm  of 
the  night  before  he  recalled  with  a  dull  wonder  that 


160  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

he  could  have  been  so  optimistic.  In  fact,  he  remem 
bered  things  only  with  an  effort.  His  temples 
throbbed;  his  hands  felt  cold  and  sweaty.  As  in  a 
dream  he  wondered  for  a  time  where  Don  was ;  and  the 
next  moment,  dream-like,  it  didn't  seem  to  matter. 
But  why  hadn't  Sydney  come,  or  telephoned?  Sydney 
could  give  him  something  at  once  to  put  him  right. 
Sydney?  Heavens!  Was  it  possible  that  he  now  lay 
in  the  snares  of  Yetive  Soule?  He  seemed  to  remember 
that  her  image  had  flitted  like  a  flame  through  the 
many  horrors  of  his  nightmare.  This  image  persisted 
curiously,  and  in  the  same  curious  way  his  brain  in 
sisted  that  it  must  have  been  the  claret  of  the  night 
before  that  had  made  him  sick,  and  that  he  abhorred 
claret.  Yet,  the  next  second,  it  seemed  as  if  some  iced 
claret  would  relieve  him  at  once.  He  would  have  gone 
out  to  get  it,  but  he  felt  too  languid  to  stir,  too  languid 
even  to  telephone  the  janitor's  office.  He  would  lie 
down  again  and  try  to  sleep  it  off. 

After  what  seemed  hours  of  nausea  and  throbbing 
temples,  Dr.  Phillips  came  in.  Harold's  condition 
evoked  his  instant  sympathy,  and  eagerly  Harold  took 
the  draught  the  physician  prepared  for  him.  Har 
old  experienced  almost  immediate  relief;  but  his  lan 
guor  continued,  until  Sydney  suggested  that  he 
should  come  over  to  Sydney's  hotel  for  the  night,  for 
treatment  if  necessary.  He  assented,  and  slept  that 
night  under  the  spell  of  another  drug.  The  next 
morning  he  felt  better,  and  Sydney  prescribed  just 
one  more  draught  for  him  before  breakfast,  if  he  felt 
like  trying  to  do  any  business  that  day.  He  took  this. 
A  feeling  of  buoyancy  and  singular  vigor  came  to 
him,  and  his  optimism,  his  confidence  in  himself,  was 
fully  restored. 

Phillips   then   confided   that   he  had   found   time   to 


THE  SPRINGING  OF  THE  TRAP        161 

arrange  for  the  conference,  and  had  also  talked  with 
Jackberry  and  Winn  a  little,  and  that  he  believed  they 
were  weakening. 

"If  you  stand  firm,  old  man,"  he  concluded,  "I 
think  they  will  concede  every  point  demanded." 

It  happened  exactly  as  Dr.  Phillips  had  predicted. 
During  the  interview  it  seemed  to  Harold  as  if  his 
brain  had  never  worked  more  clearly.  Everything 
went  smoothly.  True,  Jackberry  clung  to  one  or  two 
points  rather  stubbornly  for  a  time,  but  Winn  began 
urging  concessions  while  the  conference  was  yet 
young. 

Presently  Harold  knew  that  he  had  won.  A  feel 
ing'  of  success  had  been  buoying  him  up  with  every 
passing  moment.  His  own  eloquence  amazed  him.  He 
even  wanted  to  prolong  the  controversy  for  the  joy 
of  overcoming  obstacles,  so  sure  was  he  of  ultimate 
victory.  And  then  it  came,  all  in  a  moment.  His 
pulses  beat  furiously.  Quite  dazzled  by  his  dreams, 
as  he  saw  what  a  golden  future  stretched  before  him, 
he  seemed  to  be  walking  on  air,  when  they  all  ad 
journed  to  the  notary's  office  for  the  signing  and 
recording  of  the  final  documents. 

Harold  here  found  himself  being  annoyed  by  the 
notary,  who  was  a  Judge  Chambers,  it  appeared. 
This  judge  asked  a  good  many  questions  that  surprised 
Harold,  and  Harold  answered  them,  as  he  fancied, 
rather  spiritedly.  After  a  while  a  Dr.  Winn  came 
in.  Harold  then  said  to  himself  that  it  certainly 
was  absurd  of  him  not  to  recall  that  Winn  was  a 
doctor,  or  no — whatever  could  be  the  matter  with 
him? — Winn  wasn't  a  doctor,  certainly  not,  he  was 
an  expert  philanthropist.  Well,  who  then  was  this? 

What  on  earth  made  his  head  feel  so  queer?  A 
moment  later  he  knew  that  he  was  heartily  shaking 


162  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

hands  with  Jackberry  and  Winn.  He  saw  them  leave 
the  office,  with  an  odd  feeling  of  relief.  They  asked 
him  to  excuse  them,  as  there  were  some  important  de 
tails  of  this  enterprise  to  be  attended  to  at  once. 
Harold  nodded.  He  saw  that  he  was  expected  to  know 
all  about  these;  but,  somehow,  he  could  not  recall  that 
any  previous  reference  had  been  made  to  them. 

Later,  he  and  the  two  physicians  (he  had  stopped 
trying  to  puzzle  out  about  Dr.  Winn)  entered  an 
automobile,  and  he  leaned  against  the  cushions  rather 
wearily.  Things  now  seemed  foggy  in  his  memory. 
He  was  desperately  ashamed  that  he  had  forgotten 
just  what  business  it  was  that  called  them  to  this  big, 
gray  stone  building.  So  he  cunningly  said  nothing. 
And  for  the  same  reason  he  waited  quietly  in  the 
room  where  he  found  himself,  after  a  rather  long  ride. 
He  would  not,  for  anything,  confess  to  Dr.  Phillips 
that  he  had  forgotten  what  he  was  to  wait  for,  when 
the  latter  said  significantly:  "I'll  call  for  you  here, 
as  soon  as  I  attend  to  that  little  matter  you  and  I 
talked  over,  day  before  yesterday." 

Stupor  now  overcame  him.  Two  hours  later  he 
realized  that  he  was  sitting  in  a  big  easy-chair.  In 
front  of  him  was  a  barred  window.  He  did  not  notice 
the  bars  till  he  staggeringly  approached  them.  His 
eye  caught  a  gleam  of  scarlet  out  there  on  the  lawn. 
A  vague  memory  stirred  him.  For  a  half  hour  longer 
he  struggled  to  recall  that  buried  memory;  and  then 
swiftly,  in  agony,  the  resurrection  was  accomplished. 
Harold  remembered  and  knew"! 

He  had  passed  the  place  when  motoring  with  Miss 
Winn ;  and,  struck  by  the  beauty  of  the  scarlet  flowers 
on  the  lawn,  had  asked  her  whether  it  was  a  college 
of  some  sort.  She  had  answered,  as  the  poor,  ignor 
ant,  cultured  girl  honestly  believed:  "It's  a  place, 


THE  SPRINGING  OF  THE  TRAP        163 

Air.  Fitzgerald,  where  they  try  to  cure  diseased  minds. 
But  the  grounds  are  beautiful,  aren't  they,  although 
the  associations  are  so  dreadful?  It's  Allandale 
Asylum." 

"The  place  looks  very  lovely,"  Harold  had  mus 
ingly  replied.  "Perhaps  the  poor  creatures  there  are 
better  off  than  many  engaged  in  the  struggle  for 
daily  bread,  with  no  beautiful  gardens  to  look  at  or 
move  about  in.  That  lawn,  most  certainly,  is  a  land 
scape  dream.  I  shall  never  forget  that  blaze  of  blood- 
red  flowers.  It's  like  a  symbol  of  the  Brotherhood  of 
Man." 

Harold  Avas  looking  at  it  now  from  the  inside ;  the 
only  way  things  must  be  looked  at  to  be  truly  under 
stood.  And  on  the  outside,  Senator  Jacob  Jackberry, 
Calvin  Alvin  Winn  and  Sydney  Phillips,  M.  D.,  were 
rapidly  forming,  in  most  amiable  fashion,  the  Neo-Geo 
Company,  for  the  astonishment  of  the  financial  and 
industrial  world. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

Don's  Big  Assignment 

ONE  late  afternoon  of  exhilarant,  opal  October, 
some  months  after  Harold  had  regained  full 
possession  of  his  mind  only  to  find  himself  an  inmate 
of  Allendale  Asylum,  Dr.  George  B.  Clark  sat  in  the 
consulting  room  of  the  Metropolitan  Hospital.  The 
last  patient  had  been  treated ;  and  with  a  sigh  of  sat 
isfaction  the  Doctor  was  reflecting  that  he  could 
leave  early  and  have  a  chance  to  play  a  game  of  bil 
liards  on  his  way  home.  Billiards  were  his  pet  weak 
ness. 

Dr.  George  rose  from  his  chair  and  was  putting 
on  his  hat,  when  the  door  of  the  consulting  room 
opened,  and  a  most  abominably  desolate-looking  crea 
ture  entered. 

The  Doctor's  first  thought,  as  he  glanced  at  this 
wreck,  was  that  his  billiard  game  was  off.  He  stared 
in  silence  a  moment  at  the  caricature,  the  hideous 
gargoyle  of  a  man.  The  fellow's  face  was  haggard 
and  gray,  his  hair  all  tumbled  awry,  and  his  whole 
body  shaking  as  with  palsy.  With  all  the  other  marks 
of  soddenness,  it  was  difficult  even  for  Dr.  George  to 
recognize  the  usually  immaculate  Don  Brush. 

"Well!"  said  Dr.  George  somewhat  curtly,  at 
length. 

"I've  fallen  again,"  faltered  the  other,  as  briefly. 
Then  after  a  moment,  he  seemed,  by  a  huge  effort,  to 
gather  himself  up. 

164 


DON'S  BIG  ASSIGNMENT  165 

"For  God's  sake,  Doctor,  don't  be  too  hard  on 
me  now!"  he  cried.  "You  never  have  been,  of  course, 
and  'twould  serve  me  right,  if  you  should  refuse  to 
help  me.  I  don't  blame  you  for  looking  disgusted. 
I'm  down  and  out  again — all  in !  But,  so  help  me 
God!  if  you'll  pull  me  up  just  once  more,  I'll  make 
the  race  of  my  life.  You  know  how  I've  tried !  I'm 
no  dipsomaniac.  If  I  were,  I'd  end  it  all  tonight !  I'm 
an  inebriate  though,  I  suppose,  but  these — 
lapses —  '  he  hesitated  for  the  word  just  a  second 
— "are  getting  fewer ;  they  do  me  up  more  quickly 
every  time.  I  think  you've  cured  me —  '  he  stretched 
forth  his  hands  whose  veins  were  congested  purple — 
"of  drunkenness  at  least  six  times  already,  and  last 
time  you  got  me  a  job,  in  addition.  I  made  good  at 
it,  too,  you  know,  till — oh,  Hell!  What's  the  use  of 
apologies  ?  Look  at  me !"  He  stopped,  shuddering, 
"This  is  the  last  time.  By  God,  it's  the  last !" 

His  tone  was  infinitely  weary  now,  and  something 
in  it  made  Dr.  Clark  look  at  him  sharply.  Then  he 
said  in  a  practical,  matter-of-fact  tone: 

"You  can  beat  the  booze,  yet,  Don,  if  you'll  do  as 
I  tell  you.  Intemperance,  alcoholism,  is  a  social  dis 
ease  of  the  body  politic.  It's  a  symptom  rather 
than  a  cause,  and  you  know  that  when  treating  the 
disease,  I  let  the  symptoms  take  care  of  themselves. 
I  need  your  help  in  a  matter  of  importance.  Can 
you  brace  up  within  a  fortnight?  Ten  days  would 
suit  me  better." 

Through  the  muck  and  mire  that  weeks  of  de 
bauchery  had  left  upon  him,  Don  lifted  a  face  trans 
figured  by  hope,  and  by  the  suggestion  of  being  use 
ful  to  the  man  who  had  so  often  and  so  eagerly  helped 
him. 

"Can  I?     Just  try  me!"  he  cried. 


166  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

Dr.  George  looked  him  over  a  moment  very  criti 
cally. 

"I'll  begin  with  the  stuff  I  used  before,"  said  he, 
"but  I'll  vary  it  slightly  so  it  shan't  seem  like  the 
same  old  story."  He  smiled  gently  on  the  culprit, 
and  added:  "I'll  call  a  nurse,  right  away." 

A  moment  later  he  was  quietly,  almost  absent- 
mindedly  saying: 

"I'm  turning  Mr.  Brush  over  to  your  care  once 
more,  Miss  Logan,  and  I  want  you  to  set  him  up  on 
his  feet  like  a  man,  as  soon  as  possible,  for  I  need 
him  in  my  business.  Burn  all  his  clothes  in  the  large 
furnace.  Have  Nelson  give  him  a  very  hot  bath  and 
then  put  him  in  the  medical  ward  and  treat  him  to 
a  hypodermic.  Repeat  in  half  an  hour,  if  the  stomach 
fails  to  respond.  That's  better  than  washing  it  out, 
as  the  vomiting  rouses  the  solar  plexus  centres.  Put 
an  ice  bag  to  his  head  and  a  hot  water  bag  to  his 
feet.  Give  him  one-thirtieth  of  a  grain  of  strychnine 
every  three  hours  till  morning,  and  let  him  have  all 
the  hot,  salted  milk  he  will  drink,  with  fifteen  drops 
of  capsicum  in  each  glass.  If  he  begs  for  liquor,  limit 
him  to  three  pint  bottles  of  Bass's  Ale  each  day, — 
ale  that  has  been  long  in  the  ice-box.  You  may  give 
him  a  fourth,  if  you  think  best,  but  don't  give  it  to 
him  till  you  think  the  milk  is  fairly  well  digested.  No 
morphine,  bromides  or  chloral !  If  he  wants  more 
drink,  whisper  to  him  that  famous  advice  of  John 
L.— 'Stay  in  bed  and  suffer!'  Don't  forget  the  usual 
dose  of  calomel!" 

Don  smiled  a  feeble  smile  at  this,  and  Miss  Logan 
looked  very  decorously  amused. 

"He  has  wonderful  recuperative  powers,"  continued 
Dr.  Clark,  musingly,  "as  wonderful  as  ever  came  to 
my  notice.  Nature  means  well  by  him,  if  he'll  only 


DON'S  BIG  ASSIGNMENT  167 

give  her  a  fair  chance.  In  three  or  four  days  he  very 
likely  will  demand  his  clothes.  Tell  him  where  his 
new  ones  are,  and  that  he  may  have  them,  if  he  cares 
to  go  after  them."  The  doctor  was  now  grumbling 
and  talking  in  an  aside,  exactly  as  if  Don  had  not  been 
present. 

"That  man  is  one  of  the  most  reliable  newspaper 
men  in  the  country,  when  sober,"  said  he.  "Given  a 
proper  environment,  he  would  be  a  credit,  and  has 
been,  to  journalism.  Well,  give  him  no  medicine  after 
the  third  or  fourth  day,  nurse,  only  nourishment.  At 
the  end  of  several  days  you  may  supplement  the  treat 
ment  with  electro-therapeutics.  Don't  forget  to  re 
mind  me  to  look  at  him  in  the  morning.  His  being 
in  the  medical  ward,  not  the  surgical,  might  possibly 
make  me  forget  him,  till  late  in  the  day.  And  when 
he  awakes,  by  the  way,  keep  his  mind  agreeably  oc 
cupied."  Dr.  George  left  the  room  chuckling. 

Then  the  nurse  at  once  took  Don-  in  hand,  pro 
fessionally,  with  a  kind  earnestness,  that  at  once  had 
a  soothing  effect  on  him. 

"Dr.  George  thinks  a  heap  of  you,  I  know !"  she 
murmured. 

Two  weeks  later  Don  Brush  seemed  to  himself  a 
creature  born  anew.  Were  it  not  for  corroding  memo 
ries,  he  could  almost  have  been  happy.  As  it  was, 
he  seemed  to  be  physically  and  therefore  morally 
quickened.  He  felt  once  more  that  elemental  zest  each 
one  should  feel  in  merely  being  alive. 

With  a  keen  expectancy  now,  he  awaited  Dr. 
George's  commission ;  and  three  days  after  the  fort 
night  had  expired,  he  found  himself  engaged  as  an 
attendant  at  Allandalc  Asylum,  in  a  ward  of  violently 
insane  patients. 


168  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

This  commission  from  Dr.  Clark  aroused  no  as 
tonishment  in  him.  His  training  as  a  newspaper  man 
had  steeled  him  against  surprises.  His  natural  sang 
froid  contributed  to  the  effect. 

Dr.  Clark's  crusade  against  prison  conditions  and 
a  dozen  other  evils  had  too  long  been  the  subject  of 
front-page  headliners  for  Don  to  be  unfamiliar  with 
the  Doctor's  methods,  and  he  had  been  of  some  ser 
vice  to  the  distinguished  surgeon  several  times  before 
in  enterprises  of  similar  trend.  As  to  Allandale  Asy 
lum,  there  had  been  myriad  hoarse  whispers  for  a 
long  time;  but  invariably  they  had  eased  away,  and 
whatever  foul  mysteries  lurked  concealed  behind  that 
fair  exterior,  had  remained  mysteries  unrevealed.  Now, 
apparently  to  Don,  it  was  intended  that  his  hand 
should  tear  aside  the  veils  and  exhibit  whatever  pesti 
lent  things  had  been  spawning  there.  But  deep  down  in 
his  heart,  Don  doubted  whether  even  his  own  clever 
wits  could  avail  against  a  system  of  intricate  conni 
vance,  a  conspiracy  of  silence,  that  had  so  far  baf 
fled  every  attempt  to  find  out  what  was  really  happen 
ing  inside  the  esthetic-looking  walls  of  Allandale. 

On  his  way  thither,  he  recalled  a  day  when  he  and 
Harold  had  passed  a  similar  institution  near  Boston, 
almost  equally  inviting  to  the  casual  eye,  and  the 
remark  that  Harold  had  made :  "If  one  were  so  unfor 
tunate  as  to  be  mentally  unbalanced,  there  might  be 
worse  fates  than  being  shut  up  in  so  beautiful  a  dun 
geon  !"  He  recalled  Harold's  look  of  distress,  when 
he  had  torn  away  the  veil  of  illusion  by  saying  bluntly 
it  was  known  that  "hellish  things  go  on  there,  and  in 
all  such  places." 

At  resurrection  of  these  and  older  memories,  Don 
fell  into  a  mood  of  deep  despond  that  seemed  to  be 
gnawing  away,  morsel  by  morsel,  his  very  soul. 


DON'S  BIG  ASSIGNMENT  169 

"Where,  in  God's  name,"  he  asked  himself  the  thou 
sandth  time,  "is  Harold?"  He  felt  as  if  his  friend  had 
been  obliterated  from  the  face  of  the  earth.  That 
memorable  Tuesday  in  June — how  long  ago  it  seemed, 
and  through  what  travail  of  spirit  had  he  passed  in 
that  short  interval!  There  had  been  that  second  meet 
ing  with  his  former  wife.  They  had  looked  each  other 
squarely  in  the  face,  a  moment;  then,  before  Don's 
brain  had  barely  registered  the  fact,  she  had  passed 
on,  unfathomable.  And  in  him  emotions  had  been 
called  into  play  to  which  he  had  long  been  a  stranger. 
That  soulless  woman  had  always  wielded  power  to 
shake  him  to  the  centres  of  his  being.  Must  it  be  al 
ways  thus?  His  reason  rejected  her;  his  heart  de 
nied  her.  He  was  convinced  that  any  semblance  of 
love  had  long  since  vanished  out  of  his  heart,  as 
though  it  had  never  been ;  and  yet  her  physical  pres 
ence  could  waken  an  indescribable  emotional  disturb 
ance,  let  his  reason  protest  as  it  might.  Even  the 
mere  glimpse  of  her  at  the  Art  Exhibit,  had  been 
enough  to  rouse  a  demon  in  him,  and  start  him  down 
hill  again. 

He  had  never  been  conscious  of  exactly  what  had 
happened  after  that  brief  meeting.  He  did  remem 
ber  distinctly  that  he  and  Harold  had  beaten  a  retreat 
to  the  street,  and  that  Yetive  had  been  in  company 
with  a  tall,  professional-looking  man — Dr.  Phillips,  so 
Harold  had  said.  He  also  recalled  Harold's  perturba 
tion  at  discovering  his  friend,  Sydney,  on  familiar 
terms  with  the  Vampire.  All,  after  that,  was  confus 
ing  and  bewildering.  For  night  after  night,  day  after 
day,  Don  had  immersed  himself  in  the  lethal  river 
of  alcohol.  First  he  had  turned  in  his  copy  to  the 
Star,  and  then  had  gone  straight  to  the  nearest 
saloon.  Where  he  had  been  sleeping  the  horrible, 


170  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

hideous,  dream-haunted  sleeps  of  complete  intoxica 
tion,  he  could  not  remember. 

Two  weeks  later  he  had  partially  come  to  himself 
in  a  mean  lodging,  and  with  physical  nausea  and  pro 
found  soul-sickness  had  begun  to  pick  up  the  threads 
of  life  once  more.  He  was  out  of  a  job  and  without 
money,  except  a  dollar  bill  tucked  in  the  foot  of  a 
stocking  he  had  not  taken  off  for  days.  When  he  had 
summoned  up  nerve  to  call  on  the  manager  of  the 
Star,  the  manager  had  told  him  curtly,  though  with 
out  unkindness,  that  his  usefulness,  even  as  a  "hack," 
was  too  much  impaired  for  them  to  take  him  on  again. 
The  manager  had  offered  him  a  small  stake  to  get 
cleaned  up,  if  he  would  promise,  on  his  honor,  not  to 
spend  it  for  more  booze,  instead ;  but  Don  had  de 
clined  with  thanks,  rather  resentfully,  it  must  be  con 
fessed,  and  the  interview  had  ended.  Most  of  all, 
Harold  had  vanished  from  their  quarters,  and  had  left 
no  trace.  The  rent  had  been  paid  in  advance,  and  his 
effects  were  at  his  disposal,  or  could  be  stored  for 
him. 

The  management  of  the  apartment,  in  reply  to  his 
insistent  queries,  believed  that  Mr.  Fitzgerald  had  left 
the  place  on  Wednesday  evening,  the  day  after  the 
encounter  at  the  Art  Exhibit;  but  a  note  from  him 
had  come  on  Friday,  ordering  his  effects  and  all  mail 
delivered  to  his  attorney,  the  Hon.  Jacob  Jackberry. 
The  note  said  he  had  been  taken  suddenly  ill  and  was 
going  to  his  home  in  Minneapolis,  accompanied  by 
his  physician.  Oh,  certainly,  they  were  perfectly 
familiar  with  Mr.  Fitzgerald's  signature;  they  had 
cashed  cheques  for  him  several  times.  The  note  was 
dictated  and  typewritten,  but  signed  by  Mr.  Fitz 
gerald,  beyond  a  doubt. 

This    was    absolutely    all    Don    could    learn    of    his 


DON'S  BIG  ASSIGNMENT  171 

dearly  loved  chum. 

Humiliated  and  beyond  words  dejected  by  his  own 
disgraceful  lapse,  Don  wondered  whether  Harold 
might  not  have  wished  to  sever  the  ties  of  friendship 
between  them.  His  affection  gainsaid  this  thought, 
but  his  reason  inclined  him  to  it.  Yet  he  made  several 
more  efforts.  He  sought  out  Senator  Jackberry,  whom 
he  had  casually  met  some  years  before.  He  was,  in 
spite  of  his  dissipated  appearance,  rather  cordially 
received  by  the  lawyer,  though  Jackberry  seemed  at 
first  to  recall  Harold  and  his  affairs  with  some  diffi 
culty  or  unpleasant  reluctance,  which  made  Don  sur 
mise  that  the  deal  had  fallen  through,  or  was  at  indefi 
nite  stand-still,  and  that  Jackberry  was  vexed  over 
loss  of  time  and  effort.  But  presently  the  bluff  Sena 
tor  said,  in  such  an  off-hand  way,  that  it  made  Don's 
heart  welter  in  sick  despair: 

"Oh,  yes,  yes.  The  people  at  his  former  quarters 
informed  you  correctly — quite  correctly.  Mr.  Fitz 
gerald  was  threatened  with  typhoid,  and  returned  home 
with  his  physician.  Yes,  he  decided  to  go  home  quite 
suddenly,  I  remember.  Some  business  matter  in  Min 
neapolis  needed  his  presence  there,  I  believe,  and  he 
didn't  want  to  risk  being  ill  in  Boston  for  an  indefinite 
time.  He  had  gone  to  the  train  to  see  his  dear  friend, 
Dr.  Phillips,  off,  when  he  was  taken  quite  ill;  hadn't 
been  feeling  any  too  well  for  a  week. 

"Dr.  Phillips  decided  to  stay  over  till  a  later  train, 
and  Mr.  Fitzgerald  was  made  comfortable  at  a  hotel 
opposite  the  South  Station  until  he  could  be  made 
ready  to  go.  The  temporary  prostration  eased  up  a 
bit,  and  he  came  here  to  dictate  a  letter.  The  two 
got  away  on  the  Western  Limited  some  hours  later. 
I  had  one  of  my  clerks  send  his  effects  after  him,  and 
in  about  a  fortnight,  it  seems  to  me,  he  and  Dr.  Phil- 


172  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

lips  left  for  Europe.  That's  the  last  news  I've  had 
of  them,  for  I  got  merely  a  wire;  so  I  can't  give  you 
Mr.  Fitzgerald's  address  until  I  hear  from  him  again." 

In  the  weeks  that  followed,  while  Don  still  had  been 
pursuing  his  downward  spiral,  he  ventured  three  times 
to  ask  for  Harold's  address.  The  first  time,  "Poste 
Restante,"  Hyeres,  France,  was  given  him.  The  sec 
ond  time,  he  was  rather  coldly  received  and  the  same 
address  was  repeated.  The  third  time,  Senator  Jack- 
berry  was  "out."  Don  could  only  arrive  at  the  de 
cision  that  Harold  had  become  disgusted  with  him  and 
his  weakness,  and  had  given  orders  that  his  address 
was  not  to  be  revealed.  A  letter  sent  to  Hyeres  had 
been  returned;  and  one  written  to  Minneapolis — the 
complete  address  there  he  didn't  know — had  met  the 
same  fate;  also,  one  aimed  in  similar  darkness  at 
Dr.  Phillips,  begging  him  to  ask  Harold  not  to  judge 
too  harshly,  and  to  drop  a  line  of  friendly  forgive 
ness  and  encouragement. 

It  was  a  stunning  blow  to  Don,  for  the  young  man 
of  heart  and  genius  had  thoroughly  awakened  the 
affections  of  his  experienced,  cynical  elder.  Before 
long,  too,  Don  had  begun  to  feel  he  had  perhaps  de 
serted,  or  seemed  to  desert,  Harold  at  a  critical  time 
in  Harold's  own  affairs.  He  wondered  how  the  in 
vention  was  prospering,  and  very  sadly  whether  the 
boy's  brilliant  dream  of  sudden  wealth  and  power  for 
good  had  gone  glimmering,  as  his  own  smaller  dreams 
had  gone,  so  many,  many  times. 

Grateful  to  Dr.  Clark,  and  vitally  bound  to  show 
his  gratitude  in  action,  Don  had  arrived  at  Allan- 
dale. 

He  had  counted  on  perhaps  a  little  difficulty  in 
passing  the  superintendent's  office.  He  was  a  shade 
nervous  lest  his  recommendations  be  investigated  too 


DON'S  BIG  ASSIGNMENT  173 

closely,  but  he  needed  not  have  been.  Superintendent 
Wilson  accepted  him  with  but  a  bare  reference  to  the 
point  of  previous  experience.  A  wiry  tenacity  was 
suggested  in  Don's  physique,  and  the  superintendent 
had  begun  by  looking  him  over  critically,  which  ex 
amination  had  quickly  induced  approval. 

Just  as  Dr.  Clark  had  remarked,  Don  had  won 
derful  recuperative  powers.  This  physical  reserve 
force,  he  now  reflected,  appeared  to  overbalance  any 
lack  of  training  on  his  part,  in  the  eyes  of  the  head 
official.  He  found  himself  engaged  and  turned  over 
to  the  head  deputy,  a  Mr.  Spear,  for  instructions  in 
his  duties. 

The  latter  had  held  this  position  for  years.  He 
was  a  tall  man  with  what  is  known  as  a  sugar-loaf 
head,  a  shape  not  incompatible  with  great  intellectual 
powers  (as  witness  the  skull  of  "the  magician  of  the 
North,"  Sir  Walter  Scott),  but  more  particularly  in 
dicative  of  unusual  physical  strength.  It  meant  this, 
in  his  case,  eminently  fitting  him  to  his  job.  He  had 
muscles  like  steel  springs,  and  arms  of  such  abnor 
mal  reach  that  they  suggested  an  ape's  when  hanging 
in  repose — "a  reg'lar  go-rillar"  one  admiring  attend 
ant  styled  him. 

Don,  the  cynical  reporter,  whom  Harold  had  jok 
ingly  rallied  as  being  too  top-heavy  with  experience  to 
be  astonished  at  anything,  whistled  a  critical 
"Whew !"  to  himself,  when  his  interview  with  Spear  was 
at  an  end.  For  his  instruction  as  to  the  scientific 
treatment  necessary  for  diseased  minds  had  lasted 
just  fifteen  minutes.  Now,  supposedly,  he  was  well 
qualified  to  hold  such  a  responsible  and  trying  po 
sition. 

An  hour  or  so  later,  in  crossing  the  corridor  that 
led  to  the  wing  of  the  female  patients'  quarters,  Don 


174  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

saw  a  tall,  strikingly  handsome  woman  going  down  an 
intersecting  passage.  Her  presence  stirred  him 
strangely.  For  an  hour  or  more  he  continued  to  think 
of  her,  very  naturally  contrasting  her  with  the  sinu 
ous,  colorful,  sensuous  Vampire  of  his  years  of  dam 
nation.  This  new,  half-glimpsed  woman  looked  and 
moved  like  a  real  woman,  not  a  make-believe.  Nor  did 
she  suffer  in  comparison,  physically,  with  Yetive  Soule. 
Not  alone  by  her  noble  proportions  was  the  eye  satis 
fied  and  comforted.  Shapely-shouldered,  full-breasted, 
nobly  hipped,  and  with  a  walk  whose  unconscious 
dignity  any  queen  might  have  envied,  this  mysterious 
invader  of  Don's  musings  had  a  face  of  wonderful 
compassion — a  face  which  recalled  that  of  the  Hu 
man-Divine  mother  of  the  First  Great  Socialist. 

But  the  Madonna  look  of  peace  we  always  associ 
ate  with  that  Oriental  Virgin  was  not  there ;  was  pa 
thetically  lacking.  Instead,  although  Don  had  not 
fully  seen  her  eyes,  he  had  sensed  a  feeling  that  they 
hinted  of  latent  fire,  of  a  flame  turned  inward  on  a 
spirit  which  had  either  seen  or  had  experienced  much 
of  suffering.  This,  despite  the  fact  that  the  long 
Madonna  oval  of  the  countenance  and  the  clear  com 
plexion,  framed  in  an  abundant  darkness  of  clustered 
hair — glory  of  woman,  eternal  snare  of  man — had 
given  at  first  an  impression  of  placidity,  of  high  seren 
ity  and  superb  womanly  poise.  Ay,  poise  was  there, 
but  not  perfected  peace. 

This  woman  had  suffered,  had  a  heart,  a  history ; 
had  trampled  her  suffering  under  foot;  had  risen  far 
above  herself,  and  gone  gallantly  her  way,  gone  about 
her  tender,  helpful  business,  on  this  dark  planet  of 
sinning,  suffering,  sorrowing  men.  She  had  conquered, 
but  was  not  yet  calm  after  the  victory. 

Thus   Don   thought   of  her.      "She  looks   distinctly 


DON'S  BIG  ASSIGNMENT  175 

eugenic,"  said  he,  "attractively  wholesome !"  Then  he 
smiled  to  himself,  this  time  at  himself,  for  such  persist 
ence  in  thinking  of  her  at  all.  He,  the  harshly  experi 
enced,  the  cynical,  the  woman-suspicious,  devoting  so 
much  thought  to  an  utter  stranger,  casually  met — a 
nurse  in  a  lunatic  asylum?  It  was  a  bit  absurd,  was  it 
not? 

But  she  did  carry  herself  gloriously !  Who  could 
gainsay  that  fact?  And  without  resistance  she  bore 
Don's  thought  away  to  the  point  of  hoping  he  might 
once  more  behold  her,  or  perhaps  might  make  her 
acquaintance,  even  against  the  regulations  of  the  es 
tablishment. 

He  had  to  laugh  at  himself,  now.  Was  he  indeed 
so  hungry  for  companionship  that  he  craved  acquaint 
ance  with  an  Allandale  nurse?  Yet  she  certainly 
looked  more  than  her  present  seeming — a  high,  heroic 
figure  of  womanhood.  Don  was  thinking  all  round 
the  woman,  in  a  profoundly  serious  way.  And  while 
thus  reflecting,  a  fresh  impetus  of  energy  for  his  task 
in  behalf  of  Dr.  Clark  came  to  him. 

"I  owe  all  this  to  you,"  was  his  ultimate  mental  com 
ment.  "To  you,  oh  mystery  in  woman's  form !" 


CHAPTER   XX 

First  Lessons  in  Brutality 

HABITUAL  inclination  to  cynicism  does  not 
necessarily  spring  from  melancholy,  or  bring 
melancholy  on.  Some  cynics  are  in  reality  extremely 
cheerful  persons.  Yet  it  was  a  mood  very  much  akin 
to  melancholy  that  took  grim  hold  on  Don  after  his 
interview  with  Spear.  Through  the  screen  doors  at 
either  end  of  the  wide  corridors  some  of  the  hardier 
flowers  for  which  Allandale  was  famous  still  bloomed  in 
brilliant  bravery;  and  some  of  the  delicious  fra 
grance  of  the  thousands  of  roses  that  had  vanished, 
mingling  with  far-away  odors  of  maturescent  wild- 
grapes  borne  by  a  crisp  gay  gale,  seemed  still  to 
linger,  still  to  proclaim  that  summer  even  now  con 
tinued  to  penetrate  the  very  quadrangle  of  the  asylum 
itself.  The  sunshine  made  bright  patches  on  polished 
floors.  Everything  most  cunningly  conspired  to  sug 
gest  the  peace,  the  beauty,  the  cheerfulness  that  were 
not. 

As  Don  was  to  go  on  duty  within  an  hour,  he  pro 
ceeded  to  utilize  that  hour  in  digesting  the  informa 
tion  just  given  him. 

"First  of  all,"  Spear  had  said,  "you  must  show 
these  paupers  your  authority.  Impress  upon  them  the 
fact  that  you  are  their  master.  Don't  bother  to  ex 
plain  anything.  Pay  no  attention,  when  some  of  them 
get  after  you  to  appeal  for  their  discharge.  They 
cuddle  to  a  new  nurse,  right  away,  in  the  hope  that 

176 


FIRST  LESSONS  IN  BRUTALITY        177 

he'll  write  to  their  relatives  or  friends.  By  tomor 
row  the  whole  ward  will  know  there's  a  new  attendant, 
and  they'll  size  you  up.  It  will  depend  on  your  looks 
whether  or  not  they'll  bring  their  complaints  to  you 
against  me  and  the  nurses.  This  is  new  business  to 
you,  and  it's  easy  to  feel  a  new  attendant. 

"Now,  then" — impressively,  "you're  to  take  down 
the  names  of  all  who  make  complaints.  Promise  them 
that  you  will  take  their  grievances  to  the  superin 
tendent  and  trustees.  Promise  anything — anything 
within  reason,  you  know." 

Spear  grinned,  his  thin  lips  parting  to  show  long, 
narrow,  yellow  teeth. 

"Draw  them  out  all  you  can.  They'll  give  you  the 
names  of  nurses  who  have  beaten  them — 

"Oh,  do  you  beat  them  here?"  Don  was  keen  enough 
to  ask  indifferently. 

"Certainly,  we  have  to !  Pure  case  of  self-defense. 
You'll  find  it  so." 

"But  I  thought  attacks  on  attendants  were  very 
rare,"  said  Don,  quite  with  the  air  of  one  caring  more 
for  the  argument  than  the  matter  involved.  "Wilson 
said  so." 

"Oh,  he's  dead  right,  as  to  that,"  answered  Spear. 
"Only  one  or  two  in  a  hundred  are  really  dangerous. 
But  if  we  didn't  give  them  a  good  thrashing  just  so 
often,  we  couldn't  get  any  work  out  of  them.  You 
see,  after  you  get  onto  the  game,  you  can  loaf  and 
let  them  do  most  of  the  work.  The  hours  are  long, 
altogether  too  long  for  the  attendants,  but  I'll  put  you 
wise  to  the  good  workers  in  your  ward,  and  you  can 
get  a  snooze  every  afternoon.  The  place  would  be 
a  snap,  if  the  wages  were  higher;  but  you  can  gen 
erally  fool  relatives  and  friends  and  pick  up  fifteen 
or  twenty  dollars  a  month  extra,  It's  like  finding  it. 


178  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

Some  are  easy  marks,  particularly  the  women  with 
husbands  who  have  gone  insane  through  booze.  These 
cases  generally  get  well  in  six  months,  but  if  we  find 
we  have  a  good  piece  of  graft,  we  take  mighty  good 
care  that  they  stay  longer.  The  doctors  rely  on  us, 
of  course,  for  reports  of  the  patients'  conditions. 
Some  of  the  patients  we  keep  for  years. 

"What's  that?  Oh!  yes,  a  few  escape,  but  the 
beauty  of  it  is  that  no  one  believes  what  they  say. 
Most  people  think  they're  nutty,  and  back  they  come 
to  the  asylum.  You're  onto  the  game,  I  see.  If  we 
didn't  keep  the  asylum  full,  there'd  be  fewer  doctors 
and  nurses  required,  and  some  of  us  would  lose  our 
jobs.  The  superintendent —  '  Spear  looked  con 
temptuous,  "is  nothing  but  a  big  stiff,  a  figure-head. 
He  comes  around  once  a  week ;  spends  about  two  min 
utes  with  a  patient ;  looks  wiser  than  a  boiled  owl ; 
gives  them  a  jolly — and  so  it  goes,  year  in  and  year 
out.  Some  of  the  relatives  occasionally  demand  the 
discharge  of  a  patient,  and  once  in  a  great  while  we 
release  them  on  parole.  After  their  discharge  they're 
too  damned  afraid  to  make  a  holler  against  us,  for 
fear  we'll  get  'em  back  and  do  'em  up  proper. 

"Now,  then,"  Spear  continued,  "you  get  chummy 
with  them  all,  and  report  to  me.  I  bet  you'll  have  the 
names  of  all  the  chronic  kickers,  and  you  can  watch 
Fales  and  Goddard  polish  'em  up  later.  Of  course, 
you  know  jiu-jitsu?  Yes?  That's  good.  We'll  show 
you  the  pumping  process  some  night.  You're  just 
built  for  this  business — you're  wiry!  I  don't  believe 
you'll  be  long  in  catching  on.  Say,  there's  one  son-of-a- 
gun  in  this  ward  who  got  back  his  reason  over  a  year 
ago,  and  ever  since  then  he's  been  making  complaints 
against  us.  It  takes  four  of  us  to  handle  him.  The 
last  time  we  fized  him  so  he  was  in  bed  for  a  month. 


FIRST  LESSONS  IN  BRUTALITY        179 

He's  a  good  worker,  all  right,  but  he's  forever  com 
plaining,  and  when  you're  disciplining  the  ward,  he 
always  butts  in.  But  you  look  all  right  and  I  think 
you'll  do.  I'm  glad  you've  come.  Report  progress 
to  me  tomorrow  night." 

"Don't  the  doctors  ever  catch  you  when  you're — 
cr — polishing  'em  up?"  Don  inquired  with  so  much  in 
terest  that  Spear  smiled  amiably. 

"Oh,  we  have  sentries  out,"  he  answered.  "We've 
got  it  down  to  a  science.  If  a  report  does  get  to  them, 
we  say  that  so-and-so  got  fighting  with  a  patient,  and 
we  had  to  jump  in  and  then  protect  ourselves.  See? 
I'm  itching  to  get  at  Hicks,  that's  the  obstreperous 
cuss's  name — and  say,  if  I  ever  do,  by  God,  he'll  go  to 
the  morgue  and  to  the  medical  school  for  carving 
afterward ! 

"By  the  way,"  he  added,  "the  grub  here  is  fkrce, 
except  the  days  that  visitors  from  the  Board  are  ex 
pected,  but  we  stand  in  with  the  administration,  about 
a  dozen  of  us.  We've  been  here  for  years  and  so  we 
get  better  eats  than  the  rest  of  the  nurses.  Just  see 
that  you  stand  in  with  me  and  the  bunch,  and  you 
won't  be  sorry. 

"Some  of  these  nights  I'll  give  you  an  illustration 
how  we  handle  state  paupers.  Hicks  calls  this  place 
a  slaughter-house — well —  Spear  seemed  to  be 

struggling  with  internal  mirth — "well,  he'll  have  one 
fine  chance,  sooner  or  later,  to  think  it  is,  when  his 
eyes  bulge  and  his  face  turns  black.  When  he  feels 
my  knees  on  his  breast-bone,  Big  Dick  on  his  belly 
and  Black  Jack's  claws  around  his  throat,  he'll  give 
worlds  for  a  breath  of  air.  You  bet,  we'll  squeeze  the 
last  breath  out  of  him! 

"You  know,  they  occasionally  hold  an  autopsy  here, 
but  they  chiefly  depend  upon  the  report  of  the  nurse. 


180  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

So  long — for  an  hour — then  I'll  introduce  you  to  your 
ward.  And  say,  any  time  you  want  a  high-ball,  I'll 
put  you  wise.  Only  go  easy  on  it,  easy's  the  word, 
here." 

Don  could  hardly  refrain  from  leaping  at  this 
monster  and  crushing  out  his  bestial  life.  But  there 
was  too  much  at  stake.  He  must  smother  his  fierce 
resentment  and  patiently  bide  his  time.  Dr.  Clark 
was  working  out  this  problem,  and  was  depending  upon 
the  reporter  for  information  vitally  necessary  to  com 
plete  his  proofs. 

Don  wondered  now,  as  he  sat  under  a  tree  on  the 
magnificent  lawn,  waiting  for  the  hour  when  he  must 
report  for  duty,  why  new  attendants  always  began 
their  training  in  the  violent  wards.  He  had  been  so 
informed  in  the  recent  interview. 

Later,  in  his  uniform  of  white  duck,  with  Spear, 
he  entered  Ward  E. 

Brush  had  gone  through  many  and  strange  experi 
ences,  but  his  blood  chilled  a  little  at  this,  his  first 
intimate  acquaintance  with  that  most  uncanny  of  mys 
teries,  disordered  mentality.  His  first  impression  was 
one  of  surprise  that  this  should  be  called  the  violent 
ward.  He  counted  twenty-six  patients,  of  whom  eigh 
teen  appeared  palpably  insane  and  in  clear  need  of 
restraint.  The  others  looked  only  melancholy  and 
crushed,  sitting  gloomily  in  their  chairs  or  walking 
aimlessly  about  the  ward. 

Don  was  evidently  a  surprise  to  them,  and  he  could 
see  the  electric  intelligence  flashed  around  that  he  was 
to  be  their  new  attendant.  From  that  instant  those 
who  seemed  sane  began  to  watch  his  every  movement, 
and  even,  more  or  less  timidly,  walked  closer  to  ob 
tain  a  better  view.  Some  nodded  and  smiled  and  even 
extended  their  hands  and  greeted  him  pleasantly. 


FIRST  LESSONS  IN  BRUTALITY        181 

Hicks — he  had  been  pointed  out  to  Don  by  Spear  with 
a  significant  nod — was  more  reserved,  and  was  the 
last  to  greet  the  new  nurse.  He  had  taken  plenty  of 
time  to  size  Don  up,  and  compare  him  with  his  prede 
cessors. 

Spear  now  took  Don  to  each  patient,  explaining 
the  form  of  malady  with  which  he  was  afflicted.  He 
showed  him  the  record-book  and  how  to  keep  it,  and 
told  him  the  size  of  the  doses  of  chloral,  morphine  and 
bromides  to  administer. 

To  illustrate  to  Don,  he  mixed  a  quarter  of  a  grain 
of  morphine  in  water,  drew  it  into  the  barrel  of  a  hy 
podermic  syringe,  and  without  ceremony  or  antiseptic 
precautions  rolled  up  the  sleeve  of  the  nearest  patient 
—who  to  all  intents  and  purposes  did  not  require  mor 
phine  any  more  than  did  the  nurse — jabbed  the  needle 
into  the  upper,  outer  side  of  the  arm  and  injected  its 
contents.  Before  Spear  left  the  ward,  the  patient  was 
heavily  sleeping.  The  after-effects  of  the  deadly  drug 
might  last  from  forty  to  seventy-two  hours.  To  Don, 
who  knew  something  of  its  hypnotic  action,  its  injec 
tion  seemed  an  act  of  wanton  cruelty.  But  Spear  was 
quite  unaware  of  having  done  anything  except  in  the 
line  of  instruction  for  the  benefit  of  a  new  nurse.  Don 
knew  enough  of  medicine  to  realize  that  had  this  pa 
tient  been  a  victim  of  kidney  disease,  that  injection 
of  morphine  would  in  all  probability  have  proved 
fatal. 

Yet  Spear  had  seen  the  man  grow  drowsy,  drop 
into  a  chair  and  become  oblivious  of  surroundings,  and 
he  had  only  grinned  and  with  a  word  or  two  more 
to  Don  had  gone  off  about  other  "business." 

Don's  heart  contracted,  as  he  looked  at  the  help 
less  victim.  This  was  a  "state  charge"  merely,  a 
pauper,  a  physical  wreck  who  had  fallen  into  the  SQ- 


182  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

cial  abyss,  and  was  now,  in  consequence,  consigned 
to  a  living  death.  And  then  shudderingly,  Don  re 
called  what  Spear  had  said  about  the  morgue. 

So  that  was  it.  When  finally  soul  and  body  had 
parted  company,  this  man,  made  in  the  image  of  his 
Maker,  according  to  a  certain  book  in  which  many 
Americans  yet  profess  to  believe,  would  be  carted  off 
to  the  dissecting-table  without  even  a  Requiescat  in 
Pace;  and  when  the  anatomists  with  their  pupils  were 
done  with  him,  be  shoveled  like  a  shard  into  Potter's 
Field. 


CHAPTER    XXI 


IT  was  Barbara's  hour  off  duty.  An  arrangement 
had  been  made  which  broke  the  long  day  agree 
ably  and  gave  her  from  three  to  four  in  the  after 
noon.  Under  a  beautiful,  thick-leaved  maple  in  the 
remotest  corner  of  the  spacious  grounds,  Barbara  was 
trying  to  immerse  herself  in  a  book.  She  had  brought 
it  in  the  hope  of  ridding  herself  of  her  own  persistent 
thoughts ;  but  finding  concentration  impossible,  she 
laid  it  down. 

Amid  the  clumps  of  trees,  not  very  far  off,  a  do/en 
or  more  patients  with  a  couple  of  attendants  were 
taking  a  stroll.  She  watched  them,  reflecting  with 
bitter-tinged  wonder  what  a  marvelous  adjuster  of 
things  is  habit.  This  was  the  first  week  of  June  and 
she  had  been  a  nurse  at  Allandale  since  October.  It 
almost  seemed  as  if  she  had  known  no  other  life.  Day 
followed  day,  like  shadows,  in  dull  monotony.  Hour 
after  hour  she  had  gone  through  the  routine,  until 
memory  finally  had  been  forced  to  lose  its  keenness, 
and  a  sort  of  apathy  had  closed  upon  her. 

She  wondered  whether  this  listlessness  were  better 
for  her  than  the  fierce  hate  and  anger  that  had  once 
made  her  quiver  and  had  kept  her  filled  with  energy. 
At  least,  she  had  then  been  intensely  alive;  now  she 
seemed  half  dead.  Would  she  ever  feel  all-alive  again? 
Well,  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait;  and  she  recol 
lected  to  have  read  at  the  close  of  a  wonderful  book 

183 


184  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

by  a  wonderful  Frenchman,  that  "the  sum  of  all  hu 
man  philosophy  is  contained  in  two  words :  Wait  and 
Hope !" 

The  memory  had  struck  deeper  and  more  painful 
root  into  the  core  of  her,  because  she  had  at  last 
awakened  to  the  fact  that  she  had  never  truly  and 
thoroughly  loved  her  seducer.  Had  she  loved,  it  would 
have  been  some  excuse ;  to  her  own  soul,  at  least.  That 
soul  now  revolted  at  any  least  recollection  of  his  look, 
his  voice,  his  touch.  Oh !  it  was  horrible !  Her  pun 
ishment  was  too  severe  even  for  the  purification  of  a 
soul,  she  sometimes  felt.  Her  mind  had  not  yet  ex 
panded  into  the  knowledge  that  this  punishment  of 
burning  shame  is  merely  a  product  of  man-established 
conventions  in  morally  dark  ages. 

Barbara  had  never  pondered  much  about  love  till 
after  she  had  discovered  that  she  did  not  love  Sydney 
Phillips,  but  loathed  him  as  a  bad  habit  which  had 
grown  upon  her  and  the  yielding  to  which  her  awak 
ened  soul  abhorred.  That  kind  of  passion  which  had 
arisen  between  them  is  close  to  loathing  and  to  hate 
at  all  times.  That  she  had  wanted,  and  expected, 
to  hate  her  betrayer,  she  had  at  first  assured  herself. 
But  the  words  of  the  dying  Agatha  had  impressed  her 
mind  cumulatively: 

"You  will  be  a  good  woman,  Barbara,  for  you  will 
never  see  him  again — and  some  day  you  will  more  than 
forgive  him:  you  will  utterly  forget  him.  For  he  isn't 
real,  Barbara;  he's  only  a  hideous  dream — a  hideous 
morphine-dream !" 

Barbara,  when  she  left  him,  had  been  electrified  at 
first  by  the  discovery  of  herself — the  finding  of  her 
soul.  She  burned  to  be  doing  something.  There  must 
be  work  for  her — a  place  for  her,  of  some  kind,  in  the 
world,  she  knew;  for  she  meant  to  make  it.  She  was 


BARBARA  AVERY  LEARNS     185 

bound  hereafter  to  gain  her  own  respect.  But  it  is 
true  that  she  felt  occasionally  some  savage  tingles  of 
temptation,  some  fancies  that  an  hour  might  arrive 
when  she  might  have  revenge. 

Barbara  had  never  read  much  of  Byron ;  but  a  few 
words  from  one  of  his  poems  had  somehow  stuck  in 
her  memory: 

"There  never  yet  was  human  power, 
Which  could  escape,  if  unforgiven, 
The  patient  search  and  vigil  long 
Of  him  who  treasures  up  a  wrong." 

Yet,  even  while  this  thought  was  echoing  in  her 
memory,  there  dawned  upon  her,  dimly  at  first,  and 
then  luminously,  the  truth  that  a  wrong  is  not  a  thing 
to  be  treasured ;  that  it  proves  a  continuous  curse  to 
him  who  seeks  to  treasure  it,  a  spurious  treasure,  the 
gloating  over  which  corrupts  and  corrodes  the  moral 
nature  like  a  vice ;  and  that  it  is  really  close  to  a  crime 
to  cultivate  hate  toward  any  individual  in  a  world 
that  so  greatly  needs  love. 

Barbara  was  just  beginning  acquisition  of  those 
jewels  that  adorn  a  woman  best — pure  thoughts  and 
loving  kindness.  Her  first  month  in  Boston  had  been 
successful,  insofar  as  finding  a  position  spells  suc 
cess.  This  work  was  in  what  is  locally  known  as  "The 
Floating  Hospital."  The  following  month,  through  a 
chance  introduction  on  one  of  her  "days  off,"  she 
had  been  engaged  as  a  nurse  by  a  State  Orphanage. 

Fairly  familiar  though  she  had  been  with  the  inti 
mate  regime  of  hospitals  and  state  institutions,  she 
saw  things,  that  month,  which  pulled  hard  at  her 
heart-strings  and  lessened  the  frequence  of  her  moods 
of  apathy. 

Almost  at  the  moment  of  her  entrance  into  the  State 


186  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

Orphanage,  her  notice  had  been  attracted  to  a  strik 
ingly  pretty  girl  of  fifteen,  who  reminded  her  some 
what  of  herself  when  she  had  entered  the  employ  of 
Sydney  Phillips. 

The  girl's  name  was  Eloise  Barton.  Barbara  even 
learned  her  history,  not  from  her  own  lips,  but  from 
Orphanage  gossip. 

The  father  of  Eloise  had  been  a  Nova  Scotia  sailor, 
and  then  a  shipwright.  He  and  his  wife  had  kept  a 
prosperous  inn  near  Boston,  some  years  later.  But 
the  sea  had  "called  again,"  as  it  so  often  does  men 
who  have  followed  it ;  and  in  spite  of  entreaties  the 
father  had  gone  forth  and  had  returned  no  more.  The 
mother  had  struggled  along,  but  misfortunes  had 
heaped  themselves  upon  her.  She  finally  had  died  of 
malignant  diphtheria,  and  the  dainty  child  of  three 
had  become  a  State-charge.  The  child  remembered 
nothing.  All  she  knew  of  herself  she  had  heard  from 
others.  At  sixteen  she  was  to  be  released  from  the 
institution,  and  enter  the  world.  To  this,  of  course, 
any  girl  or  boy  would  look  forward  with  eagerness. 
Eloise  was  an  Amazon  in  strength,  just  as  Barbara 
had  been,  and  unusually  pretty,  aglow  with  health  and 
vibrant  vitality.  She  looked  eighteen,  so  opulent  was 
her  figure.  Probably  it  was  Barbara's  panged  mem 
ory  of  her  own  luckless  entrance  into  Dr.  Phillips'  hos 
pital  in  those  years  now  growing  into  vague  and 
vaguer  shadows,  that  made  her  over-acute  to  observe 
(though  it  was  obvious  enough)  that  Eloise  attracted 
the  attention  of  the  physicians,  and  that  the  girl's 
brown  eyes  grew  warmer  and  her  very  lips  trembled 
at  the  approach  of  Dr.  Fowler.  Fowler  was  young 
and  good-looking — a  new  man  on  the  medical  staff  of 
the  hospital  wing,  and  not  yet  in  general  practice  out 
side. 


BARBARA  AVERY  LEARNS      187 

Barbara  noted  this  with  heavy  foreboding,  for  she 
knew  every  throb  of  the  heart  of  Eloise.  She  had  read 
the  luminous  language  of  those  warm,  brown  eyes, 
and  dreaded  the  pitfalls  that  awaited.  Twice  Bar 
bara  saw  Dr.  Fowler  go  out  of  his  way  to  speak  in  a 
low  tone  to  Eloise ;  and  finally  she  learned,  through 
gossip,  that  Dr.  Fowler  had  once  been  reprimanded 
for  "indiscretion." 

In  the  third  week  of  her  stay,  Dr.  Fowler's  vaca 
tion-time  occurred.  He  was  to  be  absent  two  weeks, 
and  was  on  his  final  visit  before  leaving.  Barbara  had 
accidentally  come  upon  Eloise,  sobbing  her  heart  out 
that  morning;  and  at  noon  Eloise  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen.  Apprehensive,  and  with  strange,  new  feelings 
of  militant  compassion,  Barbara  searched  hastily 
through  the  garden  for  the  girl.  She  wanted  to  pre 
vent  Dr.  Fowler  from  seeing  Eloise  before  he  went 
away ;  but  she  had  not  been  quick  enough.  They  stood 
behind  the  "Big  Tree,"  as  it  was  called;  and  were, 
as  they  supposed,  securely  screened  from  observation. 
They  did  not  hear  Barbara  coming  over  the  soft  grass, 
nor  did  Barbara  see  Dr.  Boylan,  the  Superintendent, 
trailing  cautiously  behind  herself. 

Eloise  had  her  arms  around  Dr.  Fowler's  neck  and 
was  passionately  sobbing  on  his  breast. 

"How  can  I  ever  bear  to  have  you  gone  for  two 
whole  weeks?"  she  was  crying  incoherently;  but,  before 
the  physician  could  answer,  the  Superintendent  had 
slipped  ahead  of  Barbara  and  stepped  around  the 
tree.  Confused,  Barbara  stood  still,  uncertain  what 
to  do. 

Dr.  Fowler  hastily  thrust  Eloise  away,  and  with  a 
flushed  face,  in  answer  to  the  chief  official's  stern :  "I 
must  request  your  resignation  at  once!"  answered  de 
fiantly  : 


188  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

"I  refuse  to  resign!" 

Dr.  Boylan,  with  a  severe  glance  and  gesture,  sent 
Eloise  to  the  house,  and  with  a  cold  look  at  Barbara 
reminded  her  of  her  duties.  Later,  she  saw  Dr.  Fow 
ler  go  into  the  private  office  with  Boylan ;  and  au 
daciously  venturing  near,  she  heard  their  voices  harshly 
raised  in  altercation.  She  felt  greatly  relieved.  Now 
Dr.  Fowler  would  be  dismissed.  The  girl  would  suf 
fer  terribly,  of  course,  from  the  separation,  but  she 
was  young;  the  fancy  would  pass.  This  was  not  love, 
but  just  youth's  call,  youth's  love  of  love,  Barbara 
knew;  the  early,  common  crave. 

Therefore  with  a  dismay  which  nearly  overwhelmed 
her  she  beheld  the  sequel  to  Eloise's  little  tragedy 
in  the  garden,  and  learned  finally  what  had  taken  place 
in  the  private  office. 

Dr.  Fowler  had  told  Superintendent  Boylan  that 
he  had  rights  which  the  Superintendent  and  Board  of 
Trustees  must  respect;  and  that  if  this  girl,  against 
his  inclination,  had  manifested  her  feeling  for  him  in 
private  or  in  public,  it  was  no  reason  why  he  should 
suffer  the  odium  of  dismissal  for  her  sake.  He  had 
said  her  advances  were  repugnant  to  him,  and  that 
time  and  again  he  had  reproved  her,  but  that  his  pa 
tient  efforts  to  repress  her  had  been  of  no  avail. 

Superintendent  Boylan  had  then  insisted  on  his  ex 
plaining  himself  more  definitely,  and  Fowler  had  ut 
tered  the  hideous  words  that  spelled  the  doom  of  El 
oise. 

"Eloise  Barton  is  a  nymphomaniac;  you  doctors 
ought  to  have  seen  that  long  ago !  She  belongs  in  an 
asylum  for  that  class." 

Dr.  Boylan,  a  fair  physician,  but  a  dull  interpreter 
of  human  nature,  struck  aghast  by  this  emphatic  state 
ment,  at  once  had  offered  full  apology  to  his  inferior, 


BARBARA  AVERY  LEARNS      189 

and  Barbara  had  been  obliged  to  look  on  helplessly 
while  the  girl's  doom  had  been  sealed  in  commitment 
papers  signed  by  Dr.  Fowler  and  Superintendent  Boy- 
Ian,  consigning  Eloise  to  a  madhouse  "for  the  rest 
of  her  natural  life." 

Barbara  protested  against  what  she  knew  was  but  a 
criminal  subterfuge  by  Dr.  Fowler  to  evade  the  con 
sequences  of  his  discovered  carnal  interest  in  the  girl. 
That  his  lust  had  gone  no  further  had  been  due  only 
to  lack  of  opportunity.  The  girl's  passional  nature 
had  been  awakened.  She  was  a  splendid,  healthy 
young  animal,  and  her  moral  nature  was  probably  yet 
in  abeyance,  as  it  is  in  myriads.  How  Eloise  would 
have  conducted  herself  in  a  crisis  of  emotion,  Barbara 
could  not  tell,  for  it  had  not  come  to  that;  but  the 
effect  of  her  spontaneous  response  to  the  physician 
had  been  hideous  beyond  belief. 

Barbara's  stormy  protest  that  the  girl  was  normal 
as  herself,  and  that  Dr.  Fowler  had  from  the  first 
sought  Eloise  for  the  bestowal  of  his  attentions,  of 
course  resulted  in  her  own  prompt  dismissal.  Eloise 
had  no  friends  or  kin,  and  the  institution  was  coiled 
about  with  red  tape.  Attempts  by  Barbara  at  ex 
tended  protest  would  be  regarded  merely  as  the  ma 
licious  tattling  of  a  discharged  nurse. 

But  Barbara  found  her  reward,  although  at  first 
she  did  not  realize  it.  This  hideous  act  of  injustice 
took  her  out  of  herself.  She  began  to  ponder  some 
one  else's  wrongs — and  when,  after  some  difficulty,  she 
found  out  that  Eloise  had  been  committed  to  Allan- 
dale,  with  a  half-defined  hope  in  her  heart  that  she 
might  yet  be  of  service  to  the  girl,  she  applied  for  a 
place  there  on  the  strength  of  her  credentials  from 
the  Floating  Hospital,  and  was  instantly  engaged. 
She  had  now  been  at  Allandale  nearly  eight  months ; 


190  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

eight  dreary,  monotonous  months ;  and  that  fine  fer 
vor,  that  enthusiasm  with  which  her  profession  had 
once  inspired  her,  had  vanished.  Allandale  now 
seemed  to  her  but  a  cloak  to  cover  pestilent,  noisome, 
horrible  things. 

Of  Eloise,  Barbara  had  seen  little.  Her  duties  had 
brought  her  seldom  into  contact  with  the  girl,  and 
Barbara  had  been  obliged  to  rest  satisfied  in  knowing 
that  Eloise  was  receiving  fair  treatment.  Later,  Bar 
bara  would  try  what  could  be  done. 

As  for  Eloise  herself,  she  had  drooped  and  pined 
and  rebelled  for  a  time,  and  the  wistful  look  in  her 
eyes  had  set  Barbara's  heart  aching  again.  Dimly 
Eloise  had  begun  to  understand  it  was  Dr.  Fowler 
himself  who  had  not  only  repudiated  her,  but  had 
taken  away  the  liberty,  the  restoration  to  the  world, 
which  had  seemed  so  close  at  hand.  And  ah!  not  only 
liberty,  but  that  girlish  dream  she  had  so  warmly,  so 
devoutly,  dreamed! 

But  Eloise  was  very  young,  Barbara  reflected,  and 
the  perfidies  of  existence  had  not,  as  yet,  sunk  very 
deep.  Life,  to  the  young  girl,  had  revealed  only  one 
face,  that  of  love.  Just  now  this  was  beginning  to 
fade,  to  change  into  repulsive  features,  but  she  was 
too  young,  so  Barbara  thought,  to  be  yet  thoroughly 
embittered. 

Across  the  wide  range  of  glowing  green,  Barbara, 
on  her  bench  under  the  maple,  looking  up  from  her 
hopeful  reverie  about  Eloise,  caught  sight  of  a  figure 
clad  in  white  duck,  nonchalantly  strolling.  Instantly, 
she  remembered  the  attendant  she  had  seen  in  the  cor 
ridor,  a  week  or  so  before. 

It  startled  her  to  realize  that  she  recognized  the 
man  by  his  figure  and  his  walk,  and  a  strange  feel 
ing  came  over  her. 


BARBARA  AVERY  LEARNS      191 

Why  was  Barbara  blushing? 

The  consciousness  that  her  blood  had  mounted  to 
her  face,  tingeing  it  like  a  rosy  summer  sunrise,  amazed 
Barbara  more  than  it  vexed  her;  and  it  perplexed  her, 
too. 

Clearly,  she  told  herself,  she  certainly  must  have 
glimpsed  in  this  man's  face,  there  in  the  corridor,  a 
kind  of  honest  compliment,  interest,  liking,  approval 
— or  perhaps  admiration? 

Again  she  blushed — this  time  hotly  and  angrily. 
Then  she  frowned  perplexedly.  "What's  the  mean 
ing  of  this?"  she  asked  herself.  "He's  coming  nearer, 
as  if  I  were  drawing  him  this  way.  I'll  not  stay.  I'll 
not  meet  him.  I'm  blushing  like  a  fool !  It's  ridicu 
lous,  absurd,  shameful!" 

She  rose  hastily  to  escape  the  apparently  destined 
encounter,  well-nigh  ready  to  cry  with  vexation  at 
herself.  But  Don  saved  her  the  embarrassment  of  re 
treat.  Was  it  that  he  now  had  recognized,  and  was 
purposely  avoiding  her?  He  changed  the  direction 
of  his  now  less  nonchalant  steps,  just  after  she  arose. 

Very,  very  curiously,  so  it  seemed  to  her,  this  gave 
her  fresh  humiliation,  and  aroused  a  dull  vexation  be 
sides.  She  resumed  her  seat  on  the  bench  under  the 
sheltering  tree,  and  tried  to  resume  her  book;  but  it 
had  ceased  to  be  fascinating.  Barbara's  heart,  her 
physical  heart,  was  beating  fast. 

Ah!  Barbara,  poor  Barbara,  with  your  history,  what 
business  have  you  to  have  a  heart  at  all?  Poor,  hu 
man  Barbara,  is  a  cup  of  more  potent,  far  more  cruel 
poison  to  be  pressed  against  your  lips?  Are  you  go 
ing  to  fall  really  in  love?  You,  shadowed  with  a 
secret  shame — and  madly  love  in  vain?  And  what  are 
you  doing  now,  as  you  lean  back  against  your  settle 
with  heavy-lidded,  half-shut  eyes  and  a  love-alluring 


192  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

tinge  of  that  blush  still  on  your  face?  Are  you  try 
ing,  as  a  psychological  medical  expert,  to  diagnose 
clearly,  for  the  sake  of  defeating  surely,  the  first  fine, 
subtle  symptoms  of  that  divine  disease,  called  love? 

It  has  never  been  cured,  sweet  Barbara — never! — 
except  by  more  love ! 


CHAPTER    XXII 

Don  Also  Grows   Wise 

DON'S  hours  were  from  six  to  six,  with  one  hour 
off  at  noon.  He  had  entire  charge  of  the  vio 
lent  ward,  although  under  the  supervision  and  author 
ity  of  Spear  or  such  deputies  as  the  latter  might  as 
sign  to  it. 

Don  speedily  realized  that  by  no  possibility,  even 
had  he  been  a  thoroughly  trained  nurse,  could  he  prop 
erly  perform  all  the  duties  devolving  on  him.  There 
was  work  enough  in  that  ward  to  keep  six  attendants 
busy. 

The  second  week  after  his  arrival,  he  was  medita 
tively  strolling  down  Ilex  Avenue — one  of  the  walks 
in  the  grounds — grateful  for  the  soft,  summer  breeze 
heavy  with  clover-scent  and  the  richness  of  garden 
flowers.  Soul-sick  from  the  day's  experiences,  he  was 
momentarily  tempted  to  toss  to  the  winds  this  noisome 
assignment  and  get  as  far  away  as  possible  from  the 
horrible  miasma  that  hung  like  a  dead  weight  upon 
his  consciousness.  But  he  had  promised  Dr.  Clark  to 
stay  a  month ;  so  stay  he  would.  And  as  he  strolled 
and  smoked,  and  came  up  the  Avenue  and  turned 
again,  a  fierce  disgust  of  himself  made  itself  felt.  How, 
pray,  he  bitterly  queried,  had  he  been  any  different 
from  those  horrible  creatures  inside  that  room  with 
the  iron-grated  windows? 

He  had  been  in  just  such  hideous  bondage  himself, 

193 


194  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

only  his  had  been  entered  into  voluntarily,  while  the 
poor  wretches  here  had  no  choice  in  the  matter. 

Don's  jaw  clamped  on  his  pipe. 

"No  more  booze  in  mine!"  he  growled.  "One  thing 
is  damn  sure — I'm  done  with  it,  forever!" 

Those  two  weeks  at  Allandale  had  put  the  seal  on  his 
resolve.  He  was  free,  at  last,  from  the  curse  of 
years.  He  had  resolved  before,  and  had  fallen  times 
without  number.  This  he  had  not  forgotten ;  but  some 
how  it  was  utterly  different  now.  The  invisible  ty 
rant  that  had  goaded  him  downward  was  now  in  the 
grip  of  a  Self  he  had  never  known  before,  a  Self  high- 
mounted  like  a  charioteer,  holding  the  reins  above 
all  circumstances,  and  speeding  on,  victorious.  The 
terrors  he  had  always  dreaded,  now  seemed  mere  pig 
mies.  He  felt  possessed  at  last  of  strength  magnifi 
cent.  And  so,  unconsciously  squaring  his  fine  shoul 
ders,  he  walked  on,  and  back,  and  over  the  Avenue 
again,  till  the  sun  went  out  of  the  sky  and  the  dusk 
of  midsummer  began  to  steal  over  all  things,  like  a 
spell. 

As  he  turned  near  the  south  gate,  a  woman  came 
through.  He  considered  swiftly  that  one  of  the  nurses 
must  have  been  in  the  city  for  the  afternoon.  The 
Boston  train  was  now  leaving  a  trail  of  smoke,  half  a 
mile  away. 

Don  remained  stock-still.  It  was  awkward  not  to 
speak. 

"You  were  the  only  passenger  for  Allandale  to 
night?"  he  ventured  politely.  He  had  raised  his  white 
cap  and  was  opening  the  gate  for  her. 

Barbara — for  it  was  Barbara — glanced  at  him,  and 
smiled. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  then  waited,  as  he  closed 
the  gate.  "Yes,"  answering  his  question,  "Dr.  Wilson 


DON  ALSO  GROWS  WISE  195 

sent  me  to  the  city  today,  and  the  matter  kept  me 
till  the  last  train." 

Don  was  now  walking  beside  her.  It  seemed  quite 
natural,  easy  and  commonplace  enough,  as  Barbara 
confidentially  assured  her  inward  critic.  By  the  time 
they  had  come  slowly  up  the  long  Avenue  they  had 
learned  each  other's  names,  and  had  quite  profession 
ally  compared  experiences ;  Don,  of  course,  allowing 
Barbara  to  think  he  was  in  reality  what  he  seemed 
to  be,  an  attendant  in  the  violent  ward.  But,  later, 
as  they  were  on  the  point  of  separating,  he  said  per 
plexedly:  "I  have  a  most  unaccountable  feeling  that 
I've  seen  you  before,  Miss  Avery ;  yet  I'm  certain  I've 
never  heard  your  voice  till  now.  It's  almost  impossi 
ble  for  me  to  forget  a  voice ;  and  even  if  I  could,  yours 
is  unforgettable." 

He  did  not  smile,  nor  did  he  speak  as  if  aiming  a 
compliment  at  her,  and  Barbara's  heart  jumped  at  the 
sheer  sincerity  of  his  tone.  It  did  not  seem  to  occur 
at  all  to  him  that  his  phrase  formed  an  ultimate  flat 
tery. 

"I  have  seen  you  before,"  said  Barbara  impulsively, 
moved  by  his  frankness,  "and  I  can  tell  you  where. 
My  memory  is  much  better  than  yours,  you  see." 

Barbara  was  faintly  smiling  now ;  and  there  was  a 
suggestion  of  girlish  coquetry  in  her  manner.  Her 
eyes  were  almost  on  a  level  with  Don's  and  they  min 
gled  with  his,  a  moment  of  moonlit  silence. 

Curious  how  very  young  she  suddenly  felt!  For  so 
long  a  time  her  thoughts  had  perforce  been  guilty 
ones  and  she  had  been  compelled  to  keep  even  the 
shadow  of  any  feeling  off  her  face,  that  now  the  up 
lifting  thought  she  could  be  perfectly  natural,  thrilled 
her  very  soul. 

"May  I  see  you  again?"  Don  asked,  his  cap  tucked 


196  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

under  his  arm.  "We're  both  here  under  one  roof, 
now," — he  nodded  at  the  gray  stone  building.  "The 
work  is  horrible,  I'm  so  lonesome!"  Then,  noting  her 
hesitance:  "Don't  you  ever  walk  down  Ilex  Avenue, 
after  sundown?"  His  voice  was  boyishly  eager — and 
oh !  what  music  to  her  ! 

"I'm  off  duty  at  six,"  she  answered,  amazed  at  her 
self. 

"So  am  I,"  he  returned,  adding  firmly:  "That  set 
tles  it.  If  I  happen  to  be  walking  at  the  same  hour 
you  are,  it  won't  be  half  so  lonely  at  Allandale !"  He 
smiled  at  her  with  such  a  confident  air  that  she  went 
indoors  half-smiling,  too,  and  without  having  said  No. 

Don's  fifteenth  day  at  Allandale  began  as  a  repeti 
tion  of  the  first,  but  it  was  not  destined  so  to  end.  Al 
ready  he  had  learned  things  that  sickened  him;  he'd 
seen  things  unprintable — -unspeakable.  Some  of  the  pa 
tients  in  his  own  ward  whom,  on  that  first  day,  he  had 
believed  at  least  to  be  irresponsible  melancholies,  he 
had  found,  in  fact,  not  violent  at  all.  They  had  been 
sent  there  through  the  dishonest  reports  of  nurses, 
who  for  some  spite  or  other  had  had  them  thus  "trans 
ferred." 

Once  in  that  ward,  it  wouldn't  be  possible  for  them 
to  retain  reason  long.  From  being  patients  for  whom 
there  was  every  hope  of  recovery,  they  would  inevi 
tably  become  hopelessly  insane.  Two  patients  who 
had  come  in  the  day  before,  now  had  swollen  faces 
and  purple  patches  beneath  their  eyes.  When  Don 
inquired  into  this,  he  was  informed  that  black  eyes 
and  lame  jaws  were  frequent  occurrences  because  of 
altercations  between  patients. 

Hicks,  of  whose  perfect  sanity  Don  was  convinced, 
told  him  the  truth.  "Don't  you  believe  it,  sir!"  said 
he.  "It's  the  beatings  the  nurses  give  'em." 


DON  ALSO  GROWS  WISE  197 

Don  remembered  Dr.  Clark  had  told  him  that  few 
patients  initiate  a  fight ;  that  the  nurses  almost  al 
ways  take  the  lead.  Yet,  when  a  fight  has  been  started, 
the  patient  is  often  ready  then  to  pitch  in,  and  seems, 
indeed,  to  derive  considerable  morbid  enjoyment  from 
a  "mix-up."  It  breaks  the  monotony,  to  smash  a 
face  or  get  smashed  up,  one's  self. 

In  spite  of  Dr.  Clark's  assurances  that  there  was 
an  almost  entire  absence  of  danger  in  dealing  with  the 
insane,  ghastly  shrinkings  crept  over  Don  at  times, 
and  almost  overcame  him.  In  his  normal  state,  Don 
would  nonchalantly  have  measured  fistic  skill  with  al 
most  anyone ;  but  now  he  frequently  felt  a  dreadful 
sinking  at  the  pit  of  his  stomach.  Every  moment 
found  him  apprehensive.  Hicks  was  a  most  faith 
ful  worker,  and  so  were  several  others;  and  they  re 
lieved  him  of  much  work  that  was  revolting.  But  one 
thing,  almost  intolerable,  he  must  endure  every  hour 
of  the  day  without  surcease  of  one  moment. 

That   was   the   noise,   which   was   hellish. 

Good  God ! — could  it  be  that  these  wrecks,  these 
befouled,  slavering,  cursing,  howling  creatures,  these 
bodily  travesties  of  humanity,  had  ever  been  men? 
The  melancholies  wailed  a  mournful  weird,  and  sobbed 
at  intervals ;  and  through  this  there  slobbered  the  awful 
laughter  of  idiots,  while  above  these  dreadful  sounds 
rang  the  fierce  yells  and  curdling  shrieks  of  maniacs. 

Then  came  the  thudding  of  one  body,  and  then  an 
other,  on  the  floor !  This  was  the  falling  of  the  epi 
leptics  ;  for  when  one  falls  the  others  catch  the  im 
pulsion.  Don's  nerves  quivered,  as  if  a  file  had  been 
drawn  through  his  clenched  teeth. 

Incessantly  the  curses  of  an  inventor — a  little,  pale, 
blue-eyed  man  with  frowsy  brown  hair  and  an  intel 
lectual  forehead — were  howled  or  snarled.  Countless 


198  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

times  this  man  begged  Don  to  look  into  the  utility 
of  his  invention.  He  had  been  robbed  of  the  child  of 
his  brain  and  thrust  in  here,  so  he  averred,  that  others 
might  make  millions  through  it.  The  day  came  when 
Don  knew  that  the  poor,  cracked  little  fellow  had 
spoken  the  truth.  Yet,  however  he  might  have  come 
into  the  institution,  he  was  now  quite  helplessly  mad. 

Near  by,  Don  saw  an  effeminate  degenerate,  look 
ing  with  longing  eyes  at  a  satyriacal  monster  who 
stared  stonily  ahead,  hour  after  hour,  like  a  caged 
gorilla. 

One  poor,  drooling  creature  kept  close  watch  over 
some  pieces  of  brown  paper  which  he  believed  would 
call  out  enough  money  to  pay  off  the  national  debt 
— a  bogey  that  bothered  his  frayed  little  brain  much 
more  than  it  ever  did  any  statesman's. 

Another  whose  muscles  all  tried  to  move  in  differ 
ent  directions  at  the  same  time,  a  wretched  St.  Vitus 
dancer,  frequently  aroused  by  his  antics  the  horrid 
mirth  of  the  maniacs,  who  laughed  like  fiends  in  the 
Hell  that  Capitalism  creates. 

Don  grew  subtly  conscious  that  he  was  gaining  the 
confidence  of  those  who  were  still  sane  enough  to 
feel  some  hope  of  release.  A  few  mustered  up  cour 
age  to  tell  him  the  stories  of  their  lives.  He  wrote 
down  their  names.  His  long  newspaper  training,  his 
almost  photographic  memory,  made  it  unnecessary  to 
take  notes  of  their  experiences.  The  poor  creatures, 
overjoyed  to  find  some  one  with  a  human  interest  in 
them,  became  extravagant  in  their  expressions  of  grat 
itude.  Hicks  hung  back  at  first,  half  distrustful— 
but  he  too  was  presently  won  over. 

"How  long  have  you  been  in  this  ward,  Mr.  Hicks?" 
Don  asked,  one  day. 

"About  a  month.     I  was  transferred  from  another 


DON  ALSO  GROWS  WISE  199 

department   to    the   Inferno,    as    we    call    this    place." 

"Why  did  they  transfer  you?" 

"I  had  an  inflammation  of  the  ear.  The  presence 
of  pus  in  the  mastoid  made  me  crazy  for  a  few  days. 
That's  what  they  say,  anyway,  and  I'm  not  disposed 
to  dispute  it;  though  I  remember  fairly  well,  just 
the  same,  all  the  circumstances  of  my  being  brought 
here." 

"But  why  on  earth  did  they  transfer  you  to  this 
ward?  That's  what  I  want  to  know." 

"Oh,  it's  the  old,  old  story.  I  protested  in  the 
other  department,  because  I  was  not  receiving  proper 
treatment  for  my  inflammation.  The  pain  was  in 
tolerable.  They  paid  no  more  attention  to  me  than 
they  do  to  the  rats,  or  the  roaches,  or  the  bugs  that 
overrun  the  wards.  But  I've  always  paid  my  taxes, 
and  by  God,  I  know  my  rights !  They  said  they'd  put 
me  in  this  ward  to  be  tamed.  Maybe,  they  wiU  tame 
me,"  he  added  grimly,  "but  before  they  do,  they'll  know 
there's  been  a  Hell  of  a  fight!" 

He  was   mute,    a   moment,   as   if  planning   it. 

"I'm  a  trifle  weak  yet  from  my  ear-trouble,"  said 
he,  at  last.  "That's  kept  me  awake  for  nights,  though 
God  knows  I  couldn't  have  slept  anyhow,  for  the  noise 
of  the  patients.  Yes,  indeed,  some  are  better  off  than 
others,  and  their  friends  and  relatives  visit  them.  They 
tip  the  attendants  liberally,  you  see.  Some  of  the 
patients  have  private  rooms  and  don't  have  to  work, 
unless  they  ask  for  it,  as  occasionally  they  do  to  while 
away  the  days.  I  believe  in  working,  all  right,  but 
not  in  doing  what  the  nurses  are  paid  for  doing, 
though  I'm  glad  to  help  out  a  nurse  like  you.  I  pro 
tested  against  that,  too.  Anyway,  they  think  I'm  here 
for  good.  But  they're  mistaken." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,"  interjected  Don. 


200  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

"Thanks.  I  know  my  letters  never  get  beyond  the 
Superintendent's  office,  but  just  before  you  came  one 
of  the  nurses  got  drunk.  He  was  a  fairly  good  fel 
low,  but  he  liked  to  put  it  all  over  us,  just  the  same, 
when  he  got  soused.  He'd  been  here  so  long  he'd  grown 
brutalized,  you  see.  On  his  day  off  I  bribed  him  to 
mail  a  letter  to  my  sister.  She  lives  in  Chicago.  I 
have  a  feeling  that  I'm  going  to  get  out  pretty  soon." 

"How  did  you  get  in  originally?"  asked  Don.  "You 
don't  seem  to  me  a  man  who  has  ever  been  insane." 

"Oh !  I  came  here  all  straight  enough.  I  had  brain 
fever  and  I  didn't  get  normal,  afterward.  Sick  and 
without  money,  I  had  lost  all  track  of  my  folks,  and 
the  first  thing  I  really  knew,  somebody  had  shoved 
me  in  here.  I'm  not  finding  any  fault  with  that;  but 
these  doctors  knew  precious  well  the  exact  moment  I 
came  back  to  myself,  and  should  have  let  me  go.  The 
fact  is,  they're  afraid  to  let  me  go,  now.  Over  in  the 
other  ward  I  saw  a  patient  ram  a  spoon  down  the 
throat  of  another  patient,  who  died  from  his  injuries, 
and  nothing  was  done  about  it.  I  hollered  about  that, 
too.  And — they  sold  the  poor  fellow's  body  to  the 
dissecting  school."  Don  drew  back  aghast. 

"Mr.  Hicks,"  said  he  gravely,  "arc  you  quite  sure? 
You  know  there  is  a  rule  of  this  institution  that  the 
relatives  of  a  patient  must  be  notified,  if  he  dies ;  and 
if  no  reply  is  received,  a  notice  of  the  death  must  be 
published  for  five  days  before  the  body  can  be  dis 
posed  of." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know!"  Hicks  was  grimly  smiling  now. 
"But  they  don't  do  it,  just  the  same.  I've  seen  what 
I've  seen,  and  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about.  You 
ask  Allison,"  he  nodded  at  a  melancholic  moping  by 
the  window.  "He  was  in  that  other  ward  with  me, 
and  he  had  his  five  senses  then,  better  than  he's  had 


DON  ALSO  GROWS  WISE  201 

any  one  of  'em  since  he  came  here.  But  he  can  re 
member,  as  I  do,  that  Harriot,  a  poor  young  fellow, 
died  from  starvation.  He  had  a  horrible  fever  and 
they  didn't  do  a  damned  thing  to  reduce  it — nothing 
at  all,  by  God!  But  the  record  showed  (that's  what 
the  nurse  that  was  here  before  you  said),  that  he  had 
received  ice-water  baths  and  other  treatments.  That's 
for  the  eyes  of  the  trustees,  if  anything  should  come 
up.  And  Merwin — his  case  was  hushed  up,  too.  An 
other  patient  kicked  him  to  death.  Allison  will  re 
member.  He  and  I  saw  it.  And  it  wasn't  in  the  vio 
lent  ward,  either !" 

Don  sat  stupefied,  his  thoughts  fighting  to  array 
themselves  coherently.  Presently  Hicks  continued: 

"Last  night,  when  you  went  off  duty,  I  made  Spear 
angry.  He's  wanted  me  for  a  long  time  to  do  some 
thing  that  would  give  him  an  excuse  to  go  for  me. 
He  found  his  excuse  last  night.  It's  a  trifling  one, 
but  I  know  well  enough  what's  due  me,  to-night.  This 
is  Saturday.  Saturdays  they  usually  hand  out  their 
smashed  jaws  and  cracked  heads.  Well,  anyhow,  it 
generally  saves  the  victims  from  the  curse  of  listening 
on  Sundays  to  hypocritical,  tiresome  sermons.  The 
last  time  I  'got  mine,'  I  was  weak  from  vile  food,  the 
stench  of  the  ward,  and  an  earache.  Since  you've 
come,  I've  had  some  fresh  air.  I  feel  better,  and  I 
can  put  up  a  pretty  damn  good  fight,  if  I  have  to.  Yet 
I  dread  to-night.  You  look  as  if  you  could  fight  a 
little  yourself.  They  may  ask  you  to  lend  a  hand." 

There  was  that  in  his  eyes  which  went  to  Don's 
heart,  like  a  flaming  arrow.  Don  held  out  his  hand 
silently.  Hicks  wrung  it,  then  with  a  new  look  got 
up  and  began  to  busy  himself  about  the  ward. 

Because  of  Hicks,  Don  felt  his  labors  immeasurably 
lightened  and  was  deeply  grateful.  Each  day  seemed 


A  THOUSAND  FACES 

longer  and  busier  than  the  preceding  one ;  and  as  the 
hour  approached  to  get  off  duty,  his  nerves  were 
jangling.  No  wonder,  he  reflected,  that  the  majority 
of  the  attendants  were  uneducated  rough  huskies  from 
the  backwoods.  It  was  next  to  impossible  for  a  man 
of  sensitive  temperament  to  endure  the  shrieks,  the 
stenches,  the  ghastly  immoralities  and  perversions,  the 
unspeakable  revolting  conditions  every  hour  revealed. 

Thus  at  the  end  of  only  his  second  week  at  Allan- 
dale,  he  had  accumulated  enough  evidence — things  he 
himself  had  seen  and  heard — to  send  every  official  of 
the  institution  to  Coventry ;  but  some  instinct  warned 
him  to  wait  for  a  climax  he  felt  must  be  due  at  no  dis 
tant  date. 

One  night,  three  weeks  later,  he  eagerly  waited  the 
moment  when  he  should  be  free  to  go  out-doors,  and 
when  he  might,  by  some  happy  chance,  once  more  find 
Miss  Avery. 

To  talk  with  a  refined  woman,  after  having  heard 
little  but  the  gibbering  of  idiots  and  the  yells  of  mani 
acs  for  twelve  hours,  is  a  genuine  luxury.  In  the  near- 
solitude  of  a  beautiful  park  it  becomes  well-nigh  para 
disiacal.  Don  felt  himself  hungering  and  thirsting  for 
a  sight  of  her.  He  wondered  at  this,  but  decided  his 
feeling  was  not  intensified,  or  even  influenced,  at  all,  by 
her  physical  attractiveness.  No,  it  was  mental  and 
moral  companionship  he  craved  in  such  a  deep  deso 
lation  of  soul,  amid  such  a  whelm  of  inescapable  abomi 
nations.  That  Barbara  was  very  attractive,  he  can 
didly  admitted  to  himself.  Yet  this,  he  reflected,  was 
but  a  fortuitous,  added  blessing. 

He  had  already  met  her  two  or  three  times  in  the 
corridor ;  had  walked  and  talked  with  her  once  on  Ilex 
Avenue ;  and  already  they  were  bound  in  cordial  fel 
lowship.  That  was  distinctly  encouraging.  Yet  a 


DON  ALSO  GROWS  WISE  203 

curious  constraint  seemed  apparent  in  her  manner.  He 
tried  to  analyze  it.  Apparently  she  derived  consid 
erable  pleasure  from  his  company,  and  yet  for  some 
reason  was  hesitant  about  yielding  herself  frankly, 
completely  to  a  companionship  so  mutually  agreeable. 
He  puzzled  over  this  not  a  little,  at  times.  Well, 
maybe,  it  was  only  a  woman's  way. 

Today  he  had  been  wondering  if  her  experience 
could  even  in  some  slight  degree  approximate  his  own. 
He  meant  to  ask  her  tonight,  if  he  saw  her.  Some 
how,  his  mind  revolted  at  the  notion  of  Barbara's  con 
tact  with  things  of  the  sort  he  had  seen.  He  tried 
to  hope  that,  under  no  circumstances,  could  women 
patients  be  nearly  so  horrible  as  his  own  had  been. 
This  theory,  however,  his  newspaper  memory  promptly 
refuted.  He  began  to  grieve  and  chafe  at  the  unavoid 
able  conviction  that  Barbara's  experiences  of  loath 
some  horrors  must,  beyond  a  peradventure,  be  tal 
lies,  if  not  overtoppers  of  his  own. 

Just  before  he  was  leaving  for  supper,  Goddard, 
a  deputy,  entered  his  ward  and  told  him  that  Langdon, 
one  of  the  huskies,  had  been  let  out  for  "gittin' 
soused,"  and  that  the  projected  mutilation  of  Hicks, 
for  infringement  of  some  rule  the  night  before,  would 
have  to  be  put  off  till  the  following  Saturday  night. 
Goddard  showed  himself  quite  frankly  disappointed, 
and  seemed  to  assume  that  Don  was  aware  of  the  im 
pending  chastisement  of  Hicks.  Don,  of  course,  took 
good  care  not  to  say  that  his  knowledge  of  this  pro 
jected  "sporting  event"  had  come  only  through  the 
destined  victim. 

"Too  bad  it's  got  to  be  postponed,"  he  muttered, 
in  ironical  reply,  "too  hellish  bad,  isn't  it?"  As  he 
said  this  he  reflected  how  profoundly  grateful  he  was 
for  the  delay,  even  though  such  an  occurrence  would 


204 

mean  the  postponement  of  his  own  release  from  the 
most  irksome  assignment  in  his  whole  career. 

He  next  finished  his  report  and  made  several  com 
plaints  about  lack  of  clean  bed-linen  and  neglect  in 
filling  requisitions  for  necessary  medical  and  toilet 
articles  in  the  ward.  The  complaint  he  made  most 
emphatic  of  all  was  that  a  patient  named  Eggleston, 
who  was  very  ill  and  should  be  in  the  hospital  ward, 
had  not  been  removed;  that  at  four  o'clock  a  peremp 
tory  message  had  been  sent  to  Dr.  Harlow,  but  at  the 
hour  of  his  (Don's)  going  off  duty,  no  physician  had 
as  yet  appeared. 

Don  presented  his  report  in  person  to  Superin 
tendent  Wilson.  The  latter  usually  examined  these 
reports  later ;  but,  as  he  laid  this  one  down,  his  eye 
caught  a  word.  He  halted  Don  with  a  gesture,  while 
he  skimmed  hastily  through  the  paper,  his  face  flushed 
with  annoyance. 

"In  future  make  these  reports — er — that  is — all  re 
ports  of  this  nature,  oral.  Don't  have  anything  of 
this  sort  in  writing,  Mr.  Brush."  Don  nodded,  and 
retreated  respectfully. 

"A  little  while  longer,"  he  communed  hotly  with 
himself  on  his  way  to  the  dining-room,  "and  the  reck 
oning  with  Allandale  will  be  due." 

That  night  he  ate  supper,  a  wretched  meal,  quicker 
even  than  usual.  He  never  lingered  at  any  meal,  for 
there  were  twenty  to  thirty  other  nurses  at  the  table, 
whose  manners  and  obscene  jocosities  well-nigh  raised 
his  gorge. 

He  took  a  few  soothing  whiffs  at  his  pipe,  as  he 
made  his  way  to  Ilex  Avenue.  His  indignation  at  Su 
perintendent  Wilson's  conduct  had  made  him  tempo 
rarily  oblivious  of  physical  weariness.  As  he  came 
from  the  dining-room  through  another  entrance  than 


DON  ALSO  GROWS  WISE  205 

the  one  he  ordinarily  used,  he  rounded  a  wing  of  the 
building  that  he  seldom  had  occasion  to  approach — 
the  wing  where  the  pay-patients  lived.  Just  as  he 
passed  the  first  grated  window  on  the  north  end  of  the 
wing,  some  one  looked  out,  but  almost  instantly  disap 
peared  from  the  window. 

So  abrupt  had  been  this  disappearance  that  Don 
could  hardly  believe  a  patient  really  had  looked  out. 
Yet  he  felt  suddenly  shaken  and  tremulous.  Though 
he  had  caught  but  a  momentary  glimpse  of  that  emaci 
ated  face  and  of  those  horror-filled  eyes,  it  had  seemed 
to  him — though  he  was,  he  must  be  mistaken,  of  course 
— it  had  seemed  that  the  face  at  the  window  had  been 
Harold's ! 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

Brutal  Truths 

A  GLEAM  of  white  through  the  trees  gave  Don 
the  cue  to  shake  out  his  pipe  and  hasten  joy 
ously  forward. 

"You  were  good  to  come!"  said  he,  smilingly  eager. 
Barbara  gave  him  her  hand,  the  shadow  on  her  face 
departing. 

"Has  anything  gone  wrong?"  asked  he. 

Barbara  felt  a  sudden  joy  in  a  solicitude  so  new 
to  her,  for  she  had  always  been  utterly  self-reliant, 
asking  no  consideration  or  compassion,  because 
trained  to  expect  none.  In  her  liaison  with  Sydney 
Phillips,  after  her  first  rebellion,  it  had  been  a  giving 
rather  than  a  receiving.  Even  in  the  days  when  the 
physician  had  seemed  to  care  most  for  her,  his  in 
fatuation  had  never  shown  itself  in  any  real  considera 
tion  ;  though  in  the  fashion  of  infatuated  men,  he  had 
been  extravagant  in  words  of  adoration  and  in  small 
gifts  that  set  off  her  charms  for  his  color-worshipping 
eyes. 

She  shook  her  head,  as  she  made  answer: 

"I  wanted  to  come.  It's  lonely  here,  and  this  is 
only  the  third  time  I've  really  talked  with  you." 

Barbara's  voice — the  voice  he  had  called  unforget 
table—was  beginning  to  work  its  charm  on  the  man 
now  close  to  her;  and  her  words,  matter-of-fact  as 
they  were,  thrilled  him  subtly.  As  for  Barbara,  she 
was  dismayed  to  find  herself  strangely  moved.  She 

206 


BRUTAL  TRUTHS  207 

wondered  if  it  were  not  the  contagion  of  Don'«  ^res- 
ence,  of  a  certain  boyishness  that  vibrated  about  him, 
despite  all  of  the  lines  of  care  in  his  face. 

She  had  fought  against  coming;  had  endeavored 
to  steel  her  mind  by  dwelling  on  the  ugly  past.  But 
her  mind  had  stubbornly  refused  to  dwell  on  anything 
in  the  past  that  was  not  good,  and  pure  and  precious. 

So,  at  nightfall,  she  had  sepulchered  all  other  feel 
ings,  even  her  scorn  for  Sydney  Phillips  and  her  sense 
of  shame  and  soilure,  and  had  gone  to  the  tryst  on 
Ilex  Avenue  with  a  fine,  frank,  joyous  longing  for 
blameless  companionship.  Now,  Don  was  looking 
closely  at  her. 

"You've  not  answered  my  question  yet,"  said  he. 
His  voice  was  very  gentle — to  his  own  surprise,  was 
tender.  They  had  sat  down,  side  by  side,  on  one  of 
the  benches  along  the  Avenue.  "Has  anything  gone 
wrong?" 

"Has  anything  gone  wrong?"  she  repeated  his  ques 
tion,  as  if  coming  out  of  a  reverie.  "Not  particularly 
so ;  that  is,  things  are  not  much  worse  than  usual. 
But  I  don't  believe  I  can  endure  it  here  much  longer. 
I  came  to  Allandale  on  account  of  Eloise.  That  is, 
I  knew  she  had  been  sent  here,  and  I  could  work  here 
just  as  well  as  anywhere  else,  and  try  to  keep  an 
eye  on  her." 

"Eloise?"  he  questioned,  feeling  that  here  was  a  case 
of  truly  altruistic  devotion.  To  seek  occupation  in 
such  a  place  now  appeared  heroic  to  him. 

Barbara  told  him  briefly  and  with  delicacy  all  she 
could  of  the  case.  He  listened  with  the  familiar  sen 
sation  of  burning  rage  that  was  fast  lifting  him  up — 
redeeming  him  from  the  languor  of  professional  cyni 
cism  which  had  so  long  corroded  the  best  in  him. 

"But   that's    not  what's    annoying  me   today,"    she 


208  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

said  presently.  "Eloise  is  in  Ward  I,  and  the  head- 
nurse  there  is  more  humane  than  they  usually  are.  So, 
for  the  present,  she's  all  right.  But  in  my  ward  the 
ward-manager  seems  to  be  a  monster.  Her  name  is 
Margaret  King,  and  the  only  way  I  can  describe  her 
nature  is  to  say  that  she  seems  drunk,  actually  in 
toxicated,  with  a  malignant  hatred  of  her  sex.  She 
appears  utterly  callous,  pitiless,  merciless.  The  at 
tendant  nurses  hate  her,  but  she's  popular  with  the 
doctors.  She's  a  rigid  disciplinarian,  and  if  discipline 
is  the  most  important  attribute  of  a  nurse,  then  Al- 
landale  has  an  ideal  one  in  Miss  King!" 

She  shuddered;  but,  after  a  glance  at  Don's  face  of 
intense  interest,  went  on: 

"There's  an  old  woman  patient  in  my  ward,  at  least 
seventy,  I'm  sure.  She's  hopelessly  insane,  now,  but 
I'm  told  she  came  in  here  only  slightly  deranged.  What 
she's  gone  through  is  quite  enough  to  have  made  her 
a  raving  maniac,  but  she's  nothing  of  the  sort.  She 
is  ordinarily  very  quiet,  and  causes  no  trouble  to  speak 
of,  except  when  she  feels  cold.  Cold  makes  her  nervous 
and  noisy.  The  other  night  when  it  rained,  the  ward 
felt  somewhat  damp  and  chilly.  She  seems  peculiarly 
susceptible  to  the  weather,  anyway.  She's  a  Califor- 
nian.  Well,  Miss  King  can't  stand  any  noise  except 
the  horrible  shrieks  that  come  from  her  beatings,  and 
she  appears  to  enjoy — yes,  positively  revel — in  acts 
that  incite  that  poor  woman  to  fury.  What  the  poor 
old  creature's  real  name  is,  nobody  knows.  They  call 
her  Mrs.  Johns.  Though  she's  old,  she's  remarkably 
strong  and  active." 

"I  have  seen  such,"  remarked  Don. 

"As  I  say,"  continued  Barbara,  "Mrs.  Johns  got 
nervous  and  noisy  the  other  night,  and  Miss  King,  who 
is  an  Amazon  herself,  beat  the  old  woman  insensible." 


BRUTAL  TRUTHS  209 

"Oh" — as  Don  choked  in  horror — "it's  happened 
before,  they  tell  me.  I've  even  heard  that  once  they 
broke  a  girl's  neck,  in  a  bath-room  here — killed  her — 
murdered  her !" 

"What?"   exclaimed   Don.      "Is   it   possible?" 

"Not  only  possible,  but  true,"  answered  Barbara. 
"It  happened  about  two  years  ago,  I  understand.  One 
of  the  nurses  ordered  a  girl — not  insane,  just  melan 
choly,  and  highly  cultured, — to  do  some  revolting 
task  that  never  should  have  been  put  upon  her,  any 
way.  She  refused.  There  was  a  fight.  They  finished 
up  by  dragging  her  into  a  bath-room  and  stripping 
her.  She  fought  like  mad.  It  was  a  case  of  a  beating, 
anyway,  so  she  did  well  to  fight. 

"They  mastered  her,  of  course,  and  flung  her,  naked, 
into  the  bath-tub.  Two  of  the  nurses  held  her  there, 
while  a  third  wrenched  her  head  over  the  edge  of  the 
tub.  Suddenly  there  came  a  snapping  sound.  The 
girl's  head  fell  limp;  her  whole  body  relaxed.  The 
spine  had  been  broken.  She  was  dead. 

"Dead — murdered  in  cold  blood — and  they  gave  it 
out  as — heart-failure !" 

Don's  fists  clenched  savagely. 

"Oh,  damnable !"  he  groaned.  "It  doesn't  seem  pos 
sible.  Yet  I  know  it's  true.  And  this — this  is  the 
'philanthropy'  of  modern  'Christian  civilization !'  Yes, 
it's  true,  all  right.  The  things  I've  seen,  and  heard, 
in  my  ward,  convince  me  of  that." 

"What  have  you  heard?"  asked  Barbara,  leaning 
forward. 

"Well,  for  one  thing,"  he  answered,  "I've  learned 
that  one  of  the  common  modes  of  punishment  at  this 
hospital  is  exposure  of  the  patients  to  the  coldest 
weather  in  winter.  This  is  done  by  putting  a  patient 
into  his  room,  opening  the  window  and  locking  his 


210  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

screen  so  that  he  can't  close  the  window.  The  patient 
is  deprived  of  his  clothes,  bed  and  bedding,  and  the 
heat  is  shut  off  from  the  room. 

"One  patient,  named  Patrick  O'Brien,  was  subjected 
to  this  treatment,  last  winter.  He  was  frequently  left 
in  this  condition  of  absolute  exposure.  I've  heard 
that  one  of  the  attendants  used  to  supply  him  with 
heat  in  the  room,  give  him  blankets  and  close  the  win 
dow.  In  the  morning,  however,  when  he  had  left  the 
ward,  this  attendant  used  to  take  away  the  blanket, 
turn  off  the  heat  and  open  the  window  again  so  that 
he  mightn't  be  discovered  in  thwarting  the  work  of 
his  cruel  torturers.  One  evening  when  he  resumed  his 
duties,  he  found  O'Brien  in  a  weak  condition,  and  saw 
that  he  was  sinking.  The  following  night  was  his 
night  off,  and  when  he  returned  the  third  night,  he 
found  O'Brien  dead. 

"Another  case  was  that  of  George  Nagle,  who  was 
confined  to  his  room  in  Corridor  12,  at  the  extreme  end 
of  H-building.  Nagle  had  no  bed  of  any  kind,  no 
bedding  and  no  clothes,  not  even  a  shirt.  At  times  the 
same  attendant  found  him  in  the  coldest  weather  with 
the  window  open,  entirely  naked,  huddled  in  a  corner 
of  his  room  shivering  with  cold.  Occasionally,  this 
attendant  gave  him  a  pair  of  drawers  and  a  shirt,  arid 
when  blankets  were  accessible  gave  him  one,  but  often 
he  could  not  find  any  blankets.  Moreover,  the  con 
ditions  of  Nagle's  room  were  such  that  he  could  not 
supply  him  with  any  heat. 

"Maurice  Ahearn  was  another  patient  who  required 
considerable  bathing,  and  since  the  temperature  of 
the  water  was  usually  very  low  and  the  room  cold, 
he  would  almost  invariably  try  to  put  his  shirt  on 
without  waiting  to  be  dried.  For  this,  a  brute  named 
McKeever  once  gave  hi.ro  a  severe  beating  with  a  push- 


BRUTAL  TRUTHS 

broom  handle.  Ahcarn  was  a  big  man  with  a  splendid, 
well  developed  body  and  a  fine  muscular  pair  of  arms. 
On  account  of  the  nature  of  his  insanity  he  would  per 
sist  in  reaching  out  to  get  his  shirt;  and  every  time 
he  did  so,  McKeever  would  strike  him  about  the  arms 
and  hands  with  the  broom  handle,  until  at  last  Ahearn 
was  unable  to  lift  his  arms.  His  arms  and  hands 
were  covered  with  welts  and  were  much  discolored. 

"On  one  occasion  Champaign,  a  consumptive,  re 
fused  to  eat  his  breakfast.  For  this  refusal  he  was 
taken  to  the  bath-room  and  given  a  cold  water  bath 
by  McKeever  and  another  attendant,  Sanders.  Of 
course  he  objected  and  struggled  to  get  out.  The 
beating  and  abuse  he  received  I  can't  describe  in 
words.  His  diseased  lungs  and  generally  weakened 
condition  certainly  did  not  permit  of  an  ice-cold  bath, 
for  he  was  on  the  verge  of  collapse." 

Barbara  gasped,  but  Don  kept  on : 

"Another  case  was  that  of  Jeremiah  Washington, 
a  young  colored  man,  whose  whole  career  in  this  asy 
lum  lasted  but  three  days.  He  received  no  special 
attention  or  treatment  of  any  kind.  On  the  third  day 
he  was  given  two  baths.  This  patient  was  carried 
from  his  room  to  the  bath  by  putting  a  twisted  sheet 
about  his  neck  and  another  about  his  ankles.  After 
twisting  the  sheet  and  thus  choking  him,  he  was  car 
ried  to  the  bath  suspended  by  neck  and  ankles.  Hav 
ing  put  him  in  the  tub  and  untwisted  the  sheet  from 
about  his  neck,  the  attendants  found  that  he  had  died 
there.  McDonald  and  Lemogee  were  the  brutes  guilty 
of  this  offence. 

"I  know  that  an  attendant  named  Clifford  stated, 
a  short  time  before  he  left  the  institution,  that  he 
would  get  rid  of  a  few  patients ;  and  I  know  that  five 
patients  were  carried  out  dead  during  the  last  weeks 


A  THOUSAND  FACES 

of  his  service.  I  know  that  these  patients  were  im 
mediately  prepared  for  burial,  while  Clifford  hurled 
every  vile  epithet  at  the  dead.  Then  I  know  that  at 
tendants  have  gambled  on  the  lives  of  patients,  and 
that  the  railroad  station  agent,  here,  has  held  the 
stakes  for  the  bets  placed  on  the  deaths  of  patients  at 
given  hours,  and  that  these  patients  have  died  as  the 
result." 

For  a  moment,  silence.  Then  Barbara,  seeming  to 
rouse  from  her  horror,  said: 

"Yes,  I  believe  it  all — and  more.  Quite  parallel 
cruelties  take  place  among  the  women,  too.  Miss 
King  is  certainly  capable  of  murder.  For  all  I  know, 
she  may  already  have  it  on  her  soul — if  she  has  a  soul. 
But  in  Mrs.  Johns'  case,  I'm  thankful  to  say,  she 
seems  to  have  met  her  match.  Mrs.  Johns  is  her  par 
ticular  antipathy.  The  old  woman  fights  back,  though, 
and  fights  well!" 

There  came  a  hint  of  satisfaction  in  Barbara's 
voice,  which  Don  felt  a  grim  exultation  in  noting.  He 
knew  that  Barbara  was  like  him,  in  rejoicing  to  see 
the  trampled  turn  on  their  tramplers. 

"Too  bad,"  said  he,  "the  patients  aren't,  for  the 
most  part,  really  able  to  cope  with  these  brutes.  Then 
there  might  be  retributive  justice  done,  once  in  a 
while.  I,  for  one,  can't  understand  how  any  man  or 
woman  in  charge  of  unfortunates,  can  sink  to  such 
ingenious  tortures — to  such  depths  of  infamy !  The 
usual  initiation  of  many  patients  is  a  severe  beating, 
to  begin  with.  'The  hospital  for  you!'  seems  to  be 
a  standard  motto.  Kicking  a  fallen  patient  is  too 
common  even  to  be  noticed — kicking  him  in  the  stom 
ach,  head,  face,  anywhere  it  comes  handy.  Well  cal 
culated  to  restore  sanity,  eh?" 

"The  fiends !"  muttered  Barbara,  biting  her  lip. 


BRUTAL  TRUTHS  213 

"Fiends  is  right!"  assented  Don.  "And  listen,  now. 
I  know  one  attendant's  method  of  abuse  is  to  trim  a 
patient's  finger-nails  down  into  the  quick,  causing  in 
tense  pain  and  starting  the  blood.  How's  that  for 
scientific  treatment?" 

Barbara  shuddered,  but  made  no  reply. 

"They  starve  a  patient,  if  he's  too  full  of  come 
back,"  continued  Don.  "Starve  him  weak,  and  then 
maul  him  to  a  pulp.  I  know  of  one  case — it  happened 
October  11,  1913 — when  an  attendant  choked  an 
Italian  boy  almost  to  death  and  then  battered  his  head 
against  a  brick  wall.  This,  mind  you,  because  he  had 
epileptic  fits !  Some  cure,  eh  ? 

"I  myself  have  seen  patients  'trimmed'  by  the  'sheet 
ing'  method — winding  a  sheet  around  the  neck  and 
twisting  it,  two  attendants  together,  till  the  patient 
falls  unconscious  and  strangling.  'Giving  'em  the 
knee'  is  another  stunt — holding  a  patient  helpless  on 
the  floor,  while  a  husky  puts  his  knee  on  the  victim's 
stomach  and  jounces,  causing  excruciating  pain. 
Then  there's  the  'hypo  fling.'  " 

"The   what?"   exclaimed   Barbara. 

"The  'hypo  fling' — very  scientific,  indeed.  Two  at 
tendants  grab  a  patient  by  the  feet  and  shoulders, 
throw  him  as  high, as  they  can,  and  let  him  fall  on  the 
cement  floor.  Sometimes  patients  are  choked  and 
thrown  bodily  downstairs.  One  fellow,  Patrick  Lamb, 
had  his  wrist  broken  that  way.  Another,  Michael 
Bowden,  is  minus  one  eye,  that  was  kicked  out  by  a 
drunken  attendant.  And  in  the  matter  of  diet,  the 
abuse  is  continuous  and  repulsive.  Look  at  the  emaci 
ated  wretches,  will  you?  Do  you  wonder,  with  only 
putrid  meat  and  sour  bread  to  live  on?  No  milk,  no 
fruit,  no  nothing?  That,  and  the  cold,  and  the  hard 
work,  numbs  and  paralyzes  them.  There's  no  recre- 


214,  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

ation.  The  only  thing  they  can  do,  when  not  work 
ing,  is  stand  around  and  stare,  or  get  into  vicious 
practises.  No  wonder  they  never  get  well!  A  few 
months  in  here,  as  a  patient,  would  drive  the  average 
sane  man  stark,  raving  mad,  or  make  him  a  suicide ! 
It's  Hell,  I  tell  you — and  they  call  it  science!  They 
call  it  philanthropy !" 

"I  know,"  said  Barbara,  much  moved.  "I've  seen 
as  much  as  you  have,  or  more.  Oh,  how  I  wish  they'd 
all  fight,  like  old  Mrs.  Johns!" 

"She's  a  good  scrapper,  then?"   asked  Don. 

"Indeed  she  is !"  answered  Barbara,  with  satisfac 
tion.  "The  fact  is,  that  poor,  crazy  crone  actually 
seems  to  welcome  the  attack,  when  it  comes,  though  she 
does  nothing  to  invite  it.  Miss  King  has  tried  over 
and  over  again  to  subdue  her,  to  cow  her  completely, 
but  she  can't.  Mrs.  Johns  recuperates  rapidly  from 
these  assaults.  Lately  Miss  King  has  got  a  couple  of 
other  nurses  to  help  her,  and  the  last  time  the  old 
woman  was  insensible  so  long  from  the  triple  beating 
that  they  plunged  her  into  a  cold  bath.  That's  a 
favorite  method  of  resuscitation.  Oh,  yes —  ''  at  a 
look  in  Don's  eyes — "I  complained  to  the  superin 
tendent.  I  embodied  the  occurrence  in  my  report, 
which  I  took,  over  Miss  King's  head,  to  the  office." 

Don  was  now  smiling  very  grimly. 

"I  can  tell  you  what  happened,"  said  he.  "You 
were  told  to  make  such  reports  oral,  and  got  a  broad 
hint  that  any  more  such  reports  would  probably  end 
in  your  dismissal." 

Barbara  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"Yes,  that's  exactly  what  happened !"  She  paused, 
and  regarded  the  man  with  what  seemed  to  him  a  sin 
gular,  shrinking  trepidation. 

What  had  he  said  to  cause  this?     He  did  not  know 


BRUTAL  TRUTHS  215 

that  she  was  asking  herself  whether  he  could  read 
her  mind  like  an  open  book ;  and  if  her  mind,  her 
heart. 

Suddenly  Don  took  her  hands  in   his. 

"Listen,"  he  said  with  an  earnestness  that  thrilled 
her.  "I  feel  I  can  trust  you.  I  have  discovered — 
well — I'm  here  on  purpose  to  get  proofs  of  the  in 
iquities  rampant  in  Allandale ;  here  for  a  noted  surgeon 
and  reformer — people  call  him  a  crank,  fanatic,  agi 
tator,  anarchist — you  must  have  heard  of  him.  These 
things — the  things  you  have  seen —  '  he  was  now 
speaking  with  headlong  rapidity — "will  all  come  out 
in  the  mass  of  cumulative  evidence  I  am  piling  up 
against  this  institution.  Are  you  willing  to  stand  up 
with  me?" 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

Self -Revelations 

SHE  had  shrunk  a  little  at  first,  partly  from  the 
thrill  of  his  touch,  partly  from  the  vehemence 
of  his  manner.  He  had  felt  her  faint  mental  with 
drawal,  through  her  hands,  which  he  still  held  closely 
clasped,  as  if  they  belonged  to  him;  but  her  expres 
sion,  from  being  introspective,  had  suddenly  become 
determined. 

"I  will!"  she  answered  firmly,  and  added:  "I  hesi 
tated  at  first;  an  expose  always  means  publicity  of 

a  hateful  sort  and "  her  eyes  had  grown  shadowed 

and  her  mouth  bitter  in  its  curve.  She  steeled  her 
self  against  the  thought  of  self,  and  continued  with 
an  increasing  vehemence  that  Don  admired : 

"I  have  suffered  much.  Naturally,  therefore,  I 
shrink  from  anything  that  might  possibly  revive  old 
wretchedness,  or  might  bring  new  pain.  It's  cow 
ardly  and  selfish,  but — well,  I've  made  up  my  mind 
to  ignore  my  own  desires.  You  may  count  on  me." 

He  released  her  hands  with  a  grateful  pressure 
and  with  a  look  of  such  keen  appreciation  and  ad 
miration  blent  that  it  brought  fresh  color  into  her 
face. 

They  were  still  sitting  on  the  long  iron  bench  at 
the  end  of  Ilex  Avenue,  directly  across  a  branching 
path  which  looked  as  if  it  might  lead  anywhere — or 
nowhere.  They  seemed  for  the  moment,  far,  very  far 
away  from  the  world. 

216 


SELF-REVELATIONS  217 

He  looked  at  her  tenderly  as  well  as  curiously ;  and 
she  felt,  although  it  was  not  touching  her,  his  arm, 
like  a  symbol  of  close  protection,  along  the  back  of 
the  bench. 

True,  her  words  had  stirred  the  man's  curiosity. 
Had  this  woman,  like  himself,  a  very  cruel  past?  If 
so,  he  must  not  pry  into  it.  His  eyes  grew  full  of  pity 
and  understanding. 

Barbara  now  found  it  hard  to  look  at  him,  and  for 
more  than  one  reason.  Don  was  at  times  a  very  hand 
some  man.  Usually  his  face  was  immobile,  mask-like, 
with  all  the  inscrutability  of  a  clever  comedian's  fea 
tures.  But  his  eyes  could  glow  as  full  of  soft  under- 
lights  at  play  as  a  mountain-brook,  and  with  a  deep 
warmth  in  their  softness. 

Her  heart  beat  as  it  had  never  yet  once  beat  in  all 
her  life.  To  what  abysses  of  self-revealing  was  he 
leading  her?  Mentally  she  shook  herself.  This  man 
was  nothing  to  her;  never  could  be,  of  course;  what 
then  mattered  it  what  she  told? 

Don,  too,  felt  himself  deeply  moved — hurried,  as  it 
were,  toward  some  goal  he  neither  saw  nor  understood. 
His  heart  was  pounding  rapidly. 

Who  shall  reverse  decrees  of  nature?  When  two 
people,  a  man  and  a  woman,  sit  in  the  opalescent  dusk 
together,  and  both  are  lonely  and  both  have  suffered, 
what  shall  stay  the  hand  of  Fate? 

Don  felt  an  intense  desire,  a  passionate  yearning, 
to  hear  from  her  own  lips  her  whole  story.  His  in 
nate  delicacy  could  scarce  restrain  his  tongue  from 
questioning. 

Something  in  the  bitterness  of  her  calm  smile — was 
it  bitter  or  only  intensely  sad? — roused  strange  emo 
tions.  Unease,  disturbance,  possessed  him.  Was  he 
fool  enough  to  suppose,  he  asked  himself,  that  this 


218  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

woman  could  have  had  no  experiences ;  have  loved  no 
man  in  the  life  she  had  lived  before  their  paths  had 
crossed?  God!  What  difference  could  it  make,  in 
any  case? 

He  waxed  angry  and  disgusted  with  himself;  but 
the  next  moment  he  realized  that  it  did  matter- — mat 
tered  immensely — and  that  he,  Don  Brush,  had  begun 
to  care  tremendously  about  everything,  even  the  re 
motest  trifles,  that  concerned  or  might  concern  this 
woman  beside  him.  And  best  of  all — ah !  gloriously 
best  of  all! — through  this  unease,  fear,  wonder  and 
angry  dismay  burned  a  fierce  joy  that  made  itself 
the  supreme  emotion  of  the  moment. 

Don  realized  that  he,  on  his  part,  had  much  to 
confess.  Should  he  tell  her  of  Yetive  now?  With  this 
question,  all  the  folly  and  wickedness  of  his  youth, 
the  waste  of  golden  years,  rushed  over  him  like  a 
whelming  tidal  wave. 

He  was  mad — oh,  surely,  mad  beyond  a  doubt,  in 
sane  as  any  patient  in  Allandale — to  expect  he  could 
be  a  friend  to  this  woman.  Friend?  Friendship? 
Something  mighty  —  elemental  —  surged  within  him. 
Something  incomparably  more  intense  than  any  early 
thrill  bade  him  rather  strive  to  win  her  love.  Love? 
Had  it  then  come  to  this — had  the  miracle  been 
worked?  Did  he,  Donald  Brush,  truly  love? 

Love  so  suddenly,  and  after  only  a  few  brief  meet 
ings,  a  woman  he  had  not  known  existed,  just  a  few 
weeks  ago? 

What  of  Yetive?  The  soul  of  him  searched  itself 
swiftly  and  curiously.  Had  she  lost  the  old  dis Curb 
ing  power  over  him — the  physical  fascination  that 
even  recently,  after  a  lapse  of  years,  like  Circe  in  old 
Homer's  tale  supreme,  had  had  power  to  debase  him 
to  a  swine? 


SELF-REVELATIONS  219 

It  must  be  so.  As  he  now  thought  of  Yetive  and 
his  life  with  her,  it  was  like  thinking  of  a  pestilential 
corpse  well  buried.  Even  his  old  loathing  of  himself, 
for  ever  having  felt  her  spell,  had  gone  glimmering. 
Another  miracle  had  been  wrought ;  at  last  he  was 
doubly  free. 

But  memory,  acute  and  pitiless,  reminded  him  of 
the  wasted  years.  Leave  Circe  out  of  count — what 
of  his  own  debauched,  degraded  self?  What  reason 
had  he  to  suppose  that  from  the  ashes  of  his  olden 
self  a  new  one  had  arisen,  purified  by  the  fires? 

The  splendid  strength  of  which  he  had  recently  been 
so  confident,  now,  in  this  moment  of  self-stripping, 
self-beholding,  self- judging,  seemed  alas!  a  futile 
thing.  Who,  what,  was  he,  quite  aside  from  these 
other  considerations,  to  think  of  a  woman  in  his  life? 
He,  Donald  Brush,  without  money  or  position, 
snatched  from  the  gutter  by  one  who  was  laboring  to 
loosen  the  fetters  from  thousands  of  wretched  beings? 
Don  shrank  abashed  from  the  light  his  own  soul  threw 
on  him. 

The  woman  broke  the  silence. 

"Why  are  you  here?"  she  asked,  suddenly.  "What's 
preying  on  your  mind?  For  that  something  is  prey 
ing,  I  know;  my  woman's  intuition  tells  me  that!" 

Don  turned  to  her  with  relief. 

"Yes,"  he  said  eagerly,  "you're  right.  It's  the 
strangest  thing — the  story  is  a  long  one.  I  had  a 
close  friend ;  in  fact,"  with  a  touch  of  bitterness,  "he 
was  my  only  one,  save  Dr.  Clark.  For  many  weeks 
I  haven't  laid  eyes  on  him ;  haven't  had  a  word  from 
him !" 

She  uttered  an  exclamation,  leaning  forward. 

"Tonight  as  I  came  round  the  north  wing,  I 
thought,  just  for  a  second,  I  saw  him  at  the  window. 


220  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

It  couldn't  have  been,  of  course.  I've  been  thinking 
of  him  almost  all  day,  steadily,  and  probably  my  think 
ing  conjured  up  the  semblance  of  his  face.  I " 

"But  it  could  be  he.  It  is.  It  must  be !"  she  said, 
her  voice  taking  a  deeper  tone.  "I  saw  him  myself — 
I'm  sure  of  it  now!" 

Don  had  risen.  A  sense  of  mystery  and  of  some 
underlying  horror  tensed  them  both. 

"You,  Barbara!  You  saw  him?  In  that  win 
dow ?" 

"Yes !"  She  thrilled  at  the  sound  of  her  name  on 
his  lips.  "And  that  wasn't  the  first  time.  More  than  a 
month  ago  I  saw  him  in  the  grounds  over  there.  He 
was  out  with  about  a  dozen  other  patients,  taking  the 
air.  I  wondered,  then,  why  he  was  here.  He  was 
quite  a  long  way  off.  I  couldn't  then  feel  absolutely 
certain  he  was  the  same  man  up  there  in  the  window. 
But  I  thought  it  was  he,  though  changed." 

Don  was  quivering  in  excitement — one  with  hers. 

"But,  Harold  here?"  His  tone  became  incredulous. 
"It  can't  be.  I  made  my  mind  up  that  I  must  be 
wrong,  and  when  I  saw  you,  I  dropped  the  matter,  as 
an  unreality,  a  trick  of  fancy.  The  thing  is  prepos 
terous  !"  He  stared  away  in  a  daze. 

"Barbara,"  said  he,  "it's  not  impossible,  after  all. 
I'm  beginning  to  see  how  it  might  be.  Harold" — he 
groaned  heavily — "is  it — my  God,  is  it  possible  Syd 
ney  Phillips  and  that  crowd  have  done  for  you?" 

"Sydney  Phillips?" 

Barbara  gasped,  clutching  at  his  arm.  "Is  he  con 
cerned  in  it?" 

"You  know  that  man,  too?"  demanded  Brush, 
aghast. 

"God,  yes !"  she  groaned.  "Only  too  well,  only  too 
terribly,  too  fatally  well!" 


SELF-REVELATIONS 

Came  a  moment's  silence,  while  Don  tried  in  vain  to 
muster  his  thoughts.  Then  the  woman  spoke. 

"And  do  you  think  Phillips  is  connected  with  this 
affair,  some  way  or  other?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  think  so — he  must  be —  Don 

drew  his  hand  across  his  forehead  in  bewilderment. 

"Harold — his  last  name's  Fitzgerald — is  an  inven 
tor,"  Don  continued.  "He  came  East  to  get  capital, 
a  few  weeks  ago,  to  incorporate  and  market  an  inven 
tion  which  he  and  Phillips  evidently  believed  meant 
millions.  Phillips  had  given  him  letters  to  friends  in 
Boston — Jackberry,  a  prominent  lawyer,  and  Winn,  a 
retired  outfitter,  promoter  and  philanthropist.  Har 
old  told  me— 

Don  rose  in  his  excitement  and  caught  her  hand 
in  his.  She  stood  up,  too.  He  drew  her  arm  through 
his,  and  began  walking  slowly  up  the  path,  as  if  by 
measured  bodily  exercise  he  were  seeking  to  steady  his 
thoughts. 

"Harold  told  me,  just  at  the  last,  that  things  were 
not  going  well,"  said  Don,  presently,  "and  that  he  dis 
trusted  them  all  by  turns.  I  don't  believe,  though,  he 
suspected  Phillips.  His  periods  of  depression,  though 
frequent,  were  brief.  He  was  the  most  buoyant  fellow 
you  could  possibly  imagine — a  sublimely  optimistic 
soul.  He  was  expecting  Phillips,  the  day  of  the  big 
Picture-Show  in  Boston.  From  that  day  to  this,  I've 
never  seen  him,  never  even  heard  from  him !" 

"How  soon  did  you  find  out  he'd  disappeared?"  she 
asked  very  practically. 

"Not  for  two  weeks,"  Don  replied ;  then,  noting  her 
look  of  amazement,  he  plunged. 

"Barbara,  you  might  as  well  know  it  right  now. 
There's  a  disgusting  disgrace  connected  with  those  two 
weeks,  that  I  didn't  want  to  tell  you  tonight,  though 


222  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

I  meant  to  before — before  I  should  tell  you  more. 
God !  if  I'd  only  been  a  man,  Harold  Fitzgerald  could 
never  have  been  spirited  away  and  hidden  so  long. 
I'd  have  raised  such  everlasting  blazes  they  would 
have  had  to  produce  him  in  short  order.  But  I  failed 
him —  His  voice  fell  in  utter  despondency. 

"Was — a  woman— connected  with  those  two  weeks?" 
asked  Barbara  gravely,  with  a  singular  stab  of  jeal 
ousy  at  her  heart. 

"No,  and — yes,"  he  answered,  with  sorrowful  reluc 
tance.  "I'll  tell  you  everything,  dear  Barbara.  Lis 
ten — you  know  I  love  you !  You  must  know  it,  by  now ! 
It  doesn't  matter  that  I've  really  known  you  only  ten 
days.  I  didn't  mean  to  speak  out  yet ;  but  I  can't 
help  it.  I  know  I  am  not  fit  to  be  your  mate.  I've 
been  a  bestial  drunkard,  Barbara,  but  I'm  going  to 
try  and  redeem  myself,  in  spite  of  my  past,  and  make 
you  mine,  if  I  have  to  pursue  you  all  over  God's  uni 
verse." 

She  put  her  fingers  across  his  mouth  to  stay  the 
torrent  of  his  mad  extravagancies.  Oh !  merciful  God, 
why  had  this  boon  been  offered  her  too  late? — this 
crown  she  must  put  away?  Her  lover  kissed  those 
fingers  pressed  on  his  lips,  then  laid  them  across  his 
eyes ;  and  she  felt  the  start  of  unaccustomed  tears. 

"Don't  tell  me  any  more,  Donald,"  she  gently  bade 
him.  "I  don't  want  to  know  all— tonight."  She 
paused  again.  "When  you  leave  here" — the  words 
came  with  difficulty — "it's  likely  you  and  I  will  never 
meet  any  more.  Oh — don't !" — as  he  made  a  half-im 
ploring,  an  all-worshipping  movement  toward  her — 
"It's  not  on  account  of  what  you've  told  me.  That 
has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  There's  another  reason" — 
she  faltered — "but — but — let's  think  entirely  of  your 
friend  tonight.  Maybe  I  can  help  you.  I  think  I  can. 


SELF-REVELATIONS 

You  must  not,  oh!  you  shall  not  fail  him  now!" 

"You're  right,  Barbara,"  he  answered,  "tonight 
Harold  must  come  first,  but  afterward —  He 

was  gazing  at  her  now,  with  eager  eyes,  in  the  thicken 
ing  dusk;  and  faintly  she  discerned  a  look  of  suffering 
that  hurt  her  like  a  blow.  Ah!  What  a  face  Don's 
was  to  reflect  emotion,  when  this  broke  over  self-con 
trol  !  The  kind  of  suffering  now  upon  it  seemed  only 
to  accentuate  its  attractiveness  for  her.  Perhaps  be 
fore  they  parted  forever,  thought  Barbara,  he  would 
let  her  kiss  him  once  upon  the  mouth ! 

"Do  you  think  he  recognized  you?"  she  asked  hast 
ily,  her  heart  nearly  stifling  her. 

"I'm  not  sure."  Don  was  regaining  self-control. 
"It  was  only  the  glimpse  of  an  instant,  you  know,  and 
he  had  changed  fearfully." 

"He  couldn't  have  known  you,  or  he'd  have  stayed 
at  the  window — wouldn't  he?"  queried  Barbara. 

"Perhaps."  Don's  tone  was  doubting.  "But  I  had 
an  impression  that  some  one  hauled  him  away." 

"Oh!"  gasped  Barbara. 

"Would  it  be  possible  at  all,  Barbara,  for  you  to 
get  into  the  paid  patients'  wing?" 

"Possible?"  echoed  Barbara.     "/  will!" 

"You'll  have  to  find  some  plausible  excuse." 

"I'll  invent  one,"  said  Barbara,  with  calm  sublimity. 

"And  then?"     Don's  tone  grew  hopeful. 

"Then,  I'll  find  out  first  if  he's  the  man  I  saw  that 
day ;  and  if  so,  how  long  he's  been  here,  and  why.  If 
possible,  I'll  let  him  know  you're  here,  and  will  help 
him.  I'm  assuming,  of  course" — she  looked  at  Don 
with  that  sudden  doubt  we  all  have,  when  insanity  is  a 
question — "that  he's  here  against  his  will.  Is  it  pos 
sible  that  he — may  be —  —  ?" 

"Harold  Fitzgerald  is  perfectly  sane !"  cried  Don. 


A  THOUSAND  FACES 

"Saner  than  I  have  ever  been — sane  as  you  are  your 
self  !  This  isn't  the  first  time  a  man  of  genius  has  been 
called  crazy  and  shut  up  in  a  madhouse.  It  seems 
as  if  I  couldn't  wait  to  release  him.  I'd  like  to  expose 
Allandale  this  very  hour!" 

"And  spoil  everything?  Oh!  Don't  be  impatient 
— Donald !  It's  only  by  going  slowly  and  carefully 
that  we  can  succeed.  This  very  crisis  must  make  you 
still  more  cautious !" 

Don  peered  at  her  with  a  long,  inscrutable  look  that 
confused  her,  yet  set  her  heart  beating  violently. 

"There's  that  about  you,  Barbara  dear,  that  sug 
gests  trained  strength  and  self-reliance,"  said  he. 
"You  speak  like  one  accustomed  to  command." 

"A  physician,  and  a  surgeon  particularly,  must  be 
self-reliant  and  must  often  command."  She  broke  off 
short. 

"You?"  he  cried.     "Are  you  a  surgeon,  Barbara?" 

"I  was !"  replied  she,  confusedly,  then  added :  "That 
was  all  in  that  other  life  of  mine,  the  life  I  don't  like 
to  remember." 

The  shadow  had  come  back  over  her  face.  Don 
checked  the  impetuous  question  near  his  lips.  They 
were  now  walking  toward  the  south  entrance  of  the 
big  gray  stone  building.  He  had  kept  her  arm  in  his ; 
she  had  not  even  tried  to  withdraw  it. 

As  they  paused  to  say  good-bye,  not  far  from  the 
entrance,  he  again  took  both  her  hands  in  his,  and  tried 
to  search  her  eyes ;  but  the  lids  lowered.  He  was 
fiercely  tempted  to  kiss  the  quivering  lips,  now  so  near, 
so  very  near,  his  own.  But  he  drew  back;  and  in 
stead,  bent  and  kissed  both  her  hands.  Not  another 
word  was  uttered,  as  they  parted. 

When  Barbara  reached  her  small,  cell-like  room, 
locked  her  door  and  turned  on  the  electric,  she  stood 


SELF-REVELATIONS  225 

for  a  moment  looking  down  at  her  hands  curiously,  as 
if  searching  for  the  prints  of  his  kisses.  Then  she 
hastily  let  loose  her  showering  hair. 

This  seemed  to  unprison  her  spirit.  She  leaned 
back  in  her  wicker  rocker  with  a  faraway  gaze,  for 
getting  for  a  while  the  asylum  with  all  its  horrors, 
hardly  remembering  even  Eloise  and  Harold  as  parts 
of  the  evening  talk  with  Don.  All  her  heart  and  mind 
were  conjoined  on  this  terribly  cruel,  but  strangely 
sweet,  new  mystery  in  life — that  she,  the  well-poised 
Barbara,  was  utterly,  elementally,  in  love  with  this 
man. 

And  what  struck  her — happy  as  now  she  realized 
herself  to  be — strangest  of  all,  was  her  feeling  that 
this  passion  on  her  part  was  virginal;  one  that  seemed 
to  revirgin  her  and  make  her  a  girl  again.  What  mir 
acle  was  this?  She  tried  to  count  over  the  memory  of 
his  endearments,  his  kisses  against  her  finger  tips,  the 
pressure  of  his  lips  on  her  hands,  the  sound  of  his 
voice  calling  her  "Barbara." 

These  precious  endearments  were,  after  all,  but 
small  in  grace  and  ardency  compared  with  such  as — 
her  heart  whispered — she  would  have  revelled  in  lav 
ishing  on  this  man  in  return,  if  ever  it  could  have 
been! 

Barbara  felt  how  eagerly  she  could  pour  from  an 
ever  brimming  urn  the  waters  of  passion,  always  fresh 
and  pure.  Ah !  never  a  crave  or  disappointment  should 
he  know,  if  only  she  could  have  his  life  in  her  keeping! 
And — could  she  belong  to  him — she  started  at  the  con 
viction  now  forcing  itself  upon  her  that  she,  in  such  a 
divine  event,  would  be  able  utterly  to  forget  her  past 
of  loveless,  sordid  shame. 


CHAPTER    XXV 

Confession  is  Good  for  the  Soul 

LEAVING  out  of  count  a  stray  glimpse  of  her  in 
the  quadrangle  or  on  the  grounds  at  a  distance, 
when  not  at  liberty  to  join  her,  Don  did  not  see  Bar 
bara  for  a  week  that  seemed  an  age.  It  being  under 
stood  that  she  was  to  meet  him,  soon  as  news  of  Har 
old  came  to  her  ken,  she  deemed  it  best  to  shun  Ilex 
Avenue  till  then.  While  there  was  no  absolute  reason 
they  should  not  casually  meet  on  the  grounds  to  stroll 
and  talk,  Barbara's  instinct  advised  her  to  avoid  any 
chance  of  starting  asylum  gossip.  So  night  after 
night  Don  waited  and  fumed  inwardly,  smoking  on  the 
bench  under  the  maple. 

Yet,  impatient  as  he  was  for  news  of  Harold,  and 
with  a  burning  eagerness  to  feel  near  him  again  the 
woman  he  loved,  he  felt  confident  hope  and  something 
best  described  as  a  compound  of  moral  and  spiritual 
exaltation.  It  actually  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  ugly 
years  had  fallen  away  from  him.  A  youthfulness  of 
spirit,  long  a  stranger  to  his  memory,  was  beginning 
to  permeate  him  with  slow  deliciousness,  as  if  it  were 
some  elixir  of  wizardry.  Impetuous  ardor  was  replac 
ing  the  languor  of  his  studied  cynicism. 

Analyzing  his  own  weaknesses,  he  wondered  whether 
a  large  part  of  the  charm  Barbara  possessed  for 
him  were  not  her  spiritual  strength,  although — a  lov 
er's  vision  always  exaggerates  beauty — he  had  come  to 

226 


CONFESSION  IS  GOOD  FOR  THE  SOUL    227 

regard  her  as  magnificently  beautiful  and  supremely 
sweet.  Was  hers  a  far  stronger  nature,  which  had 
Hung  a  thrall  upon  him?  He  did  not  rebel  at  the 
thought  of  his  own  weakness.  What  did  it  matter, 
anyway,  if  she  were  immensely  superior?  To  win 
her,  make  her  his  prize,  would  be  all  the  greater  vic 
tory. 

As  for  Yetive,  he  had  practically  ceased  to  think  of 
her  at  all.  The  obsession  of  her  personality  had  been 
annihilated  as  by  a  lightning-stroke.  As  he  smoked, 
he  mused  on  Barbara,  grieved  that  she  had  been  so 
long  apart  from  his  life,  and  wondered,  more  for  her 
than  for  himself,  about  the  past  from  which  her  mem 
ory  seemed  to  recoil.  Then  he  worried  over  Harold ; 
and  finally,  with  a  seriousness  just  short  of  despond 
ency,  began  to  consider  the  practical  problems  of  the 
immediate  future,  problems  that  had  never  before 
given  him  any  particular  concern. 

Things  in  his  ward  had  been  no  more  trying  than 
usual,  with  the  exception  of  one  horrible  incident.  An 
elderly  patient,  Thomas  Evans,  had  been  transferred 
thither.  This  act  of  transference,  implying  that 
Evans  was  now  reckoned  "violent,"  had  clearly  exerted 
a  profoundly  depressing  effect  on  this  rather  fine- 
featured  old  specimen  of  the  buoyant  Irish  race.  Don 
instantly  determined  to  lift  him,  if  possible,  out  of  his 
utter  despair. 

It  happened  to  be  the  day  when  one  of  the  spiritual 
advisers  made  his  weekly  visit.  There  were  two  of 
these  professional  bringers  of  comfort  and  the  glad 
tidings  of  salvation — a  priest  and  a  parson.  One 
might  suppose  that  such,  if  the  spirit  of  Christ  had 
really  "called"  them  to  serve,  would  have  tried  to 
come  every  day,  instead  of  peddling  the  gospel  around 
once  a  week  in  such  petty  packages  as  to  be  rightly 


228  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

considered  mere  samples,  left  for  advertisements.  Don 
had  been  informed  by  Hicks,  that  the  sane  inmates 
always  referred  to  these  clerics  as  "the  comedians," 
or  "the  Two  Dromios."  Passing  through  the  ward, 
he  happened  to  overhear  Evans  making  a  pleading 
speech,  though  he  caught  only  a  few  of  the  words. 
Father  Schreyer  was  listening  with  an  air  of  profound 
interest.  Don  purposely  passed  that  way  again,  to 
get  at  least  the  flavor,  if  not  the  substance,  of  the 
priestly  reply.  He  had  always  felt  a  sort  of  vague 
respect  for  Catholic  priests  in  general,  and  was  both 
temperamentally  and  experientially  broad  enough  to 
know  that  the  lives  of  some  Catholic  priests  have  been, 
and  are,  of  considerable  practical  benefit  and  spiritual 
comfort  to  a  good  many  in  the  never-thinned  ranks  of 
the  wretched.  The  smooth,  suave  tones  of  this  par 
ticular  son  of  Rome,  were,  however,  lacking  in  sin 
cerity.  Yet  there  was  an  undeniable  charm  in  the 
priest's  manner  and  smile.  He  heard  Father  Schreyer 
say  cordially,  after  something  he  failed  to  catch: 

"Well,  Thomas,  my  son,  'tis  a  fine  day,  ain't  it,  a 
day  when  it  feels  good  merely  to  be  alive.  We  must 
be  grateful  for  all  favors." 

"  'Tis  a  fine  day,  your  Riverence,"  Evans  replied, 
"but  what  is  it  to  a  day  that  wud  be  twice  as  fine  as 
this?" 

The  priest,  smiling,  answered  evasively:  "Next  week 
I  may  bring  you  good  news." 

On  the  instant  a  light  went  out  in  the  old  man's 
face,  and  left  it  in  ashen  darkness.  His  head  dropped 
forward  and  he  said  no  more.  The  "comedian"  passed 
on,  listening  casually,  and  interjecting  a  few  smooth, 
soothing  words  here  and  there  amid  what  were  to  him 
but  monotonous  complaints  against  the  misadminis- 
tration  of  the  Asylum.  Then  he  went  to  his  regular 


CONFESSION  IS  GOOD  FOR  THE  SOUL     229 

fine  weekly  lunch  with  the  Superintendent,  with  whom, 
although  that  official  was  only  "a  black  Protestant," 
his  Reverence  was  on  remarkably  warm,  yes,  warm  to 
toasting  terms. 

That  noon  Don's  blood  boiled,  when  dinner  was 
dished  up  to  the  patients  in  his  ward.  It  was  "chow 
der"  day.  The  attendant  deposited,  on  the  long  table, 
a  huge  bowl  of  fish  chowder,  and  two  thick  chunks  of 
bread.  There  was  neither  napkin,  salt  nor  pepper. 
The  bread  was  doughy  and  sour.  Don  turned  with  a 
shudder  from  the  sight  of  the  lunatics  eating;  but  the 
shudder  changed  to  sick  repulsion,  when  one  gibbering 
maniac,  with  a  yell  of  glee,  plucked  a  cockroach  from 
the  chowder  and  went  dancing  down  the  ward,  holding 
it  aloft  in  triumph,  and  shouting:  "  'Tis  the  soul  of 
Father  Schreyer  come  to  dine  with  us  today — hooray 
-HOORAY!  !  !" 

He  thrust  the  loathsome  insect  almost  in  Don's  face. 
A  soul-nausea  swirled  over  Don,  as  he  thought  of  the 
helpless  maniacs'  wrongs. 

Next  morning,  when  he  came  on  duty,  he  found  old 
Thomas  in  the  bath-room,  throat  cut  from  ear  to  ear. 
On  the  gore-dabbled  shirt  of  the  suicide  was  pinned 
this  note: 

"Rev.  Father:  I  didn't  have  time  for  confession,  abso 
lution  and  the  sacraments.  So  you  needn't  bother  greasing 
my  toes. 

THOMAS  EVANS." 

Labeled,  "To  Whom  it  may  Concern,"  a  neatly 
written  and  perfectly  spelled  letter  lay  on  the  floor. 
Don  picked  this  up  hastily  and  thrust  it  into  his 
pocket.  That  letter  should  take  no  chance  of  sup 
pression.  In  his  room,  he  read  it: 


230  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

"I  have  been  here  eight  years.  I  was  never  insane  and 
his  Reverence  knows  it.  My  children  grew  too  fine  for 
their  old  father,  so  they  put  me  away.  Father  Schreyer 
knows  how  they  did  it,  too.  Each  week  for  eight  years  I 
have  pleaded  with  him  to  take  steps  for  my  release.  He 
has  promised  me,  and  broken  his  word  so  many  hundred 
times,  that  I  have  lost  all  faith  in  everything. 

"Today  my  last  hope  died.  I  ask  that  you  bury  me 
beside  my  wife.  I  own  a  lot  in  Mt.  Hope.  She  and  I  once 
promised  each  other  to  sleep  the  last  sleep  side  by  side. 
You  can  do  that  much  for  me,  but  I  do  not  believe  you  will. 
For  eight  years  I  have  lived  in  Hell.  In  the  summer  the 
ward  chokes  us  with  its  heat  and  smell  and  noise — oh,  God, 
the  noise !  In  winter  we  shiver  from  the  cold.  They  yank 
me  out  of  bed  to  work  in  the  stable,  the  pig-sty  or  the  hen 
house.  But  I  don't  complain  of  that.  It's  better  than  to 
sit  always  thinking,  thinking,  thinking.  There  are  no 
newspapers,  or  books,  or  magazines  or  letters.  We  just 
exist  like  animals,  and  sit  and  brood.  If  our  feet  hurt  from 
our  corns — and  our  feet  can't  help  it  from  the  brogans  they 
give  us — they  laugh. 

"Look  at  my  teeth.  They  were  white  and  strong  when 
I  came  in.  Those  they  have  not  punched  out  are  loose 
from  neglect,  and  they  ache.  They  laugh  at  that,  and  let 
them  ache.  We  dread  the  bath.  Sometimes  we  are  scalded 
and  sometimes  we  are  blue  with  cold.  It  doesn't  matter  to 
them.  Hundreds  of  times  I've  seen  and  felt  these  things. 
Sometimes  there'd  be  an  empty  bed  and  a  new-made  grave. 
Sunday  is  the  worst  day.  They  don't  let  us  out  for  an 
airing  between  working  hours.  We  brood  all  day.  We 
don't  pray  much.  How  can  we?  We  sleep  only  when  they 
dose  us  with  drugs. 

"I  don't  know  how  I've  lived  through  it.  A  man  dies  a 
thousand  deaths  in  this  place.  I  guess  my  time's  about  up. 
It's  taken  me  four  weeks  to  write  this  letter,  yet  I  was  once 
a  fair  and  easy  penman.  If  His  Reverence  doesn't  help 
me  soon,  I  must  help  myself. 

THOMAS  EVANS." 


CONFESSION  IS  GOOD  FOR  THE  SOUL    231 

The  farce  of  the  coming  of  the  State  Board  of  Visi 
tors  was  also  an  event  of  edification  during  this  infer 
nal  week.  On  Wednesday  the  notification  came,  and 
the  whole  institution  was  astir.  The  visitors  arrived 
Friday.  They  formed  a  fine-looking  group,  and  each 
had  an  air  of  serious  purpose  and  more  than  average 
official  intelligence.  Almost  at  once  they  sat  down  to 
a  feast  prepared  by  the  Superintendent.  "Institu 
tions"  are  best  investigated  on  a  full  stomach. 

After  the  solids,  plus  a  few  liquids,  had  been  stowed 
away,  the  doctors  took  up  about  an  hour  in  "toasting" 
their  distinguished  visitors,  who,  of  course,  had  to 
consume  about  as  much  time  and  as  much  more  alcohol 
in  toasting  the  doctors  and  complimenting  them  on 
their  fidelity  and  the  highly  scientific  treatment  they 
were  giving  their  difficult  patients.  This  impressive 
ceremonial  finished,  all  felt  somewhat  jocund,  intensely 
benevolent,  and,  of  course,  intelligent  to  a  degree  be 
yond  comparison. 

Everything  had  been  put  in  shape,  and  on  the  sur 
face  was  immaculate.  The  doctors  trailed  along  close 
in  the  visitors'  wake.  It  being  such  a  big  institution, 
inspection  had  to  be  made  hurriedly,  and  some  of  the 
visitors  doubtless  had  other  engagements  for  the  day. 
In  the  laundry,  where  a  score  of  patients  were  bent 
over  the  ironing  boards,  one  woman  lifted  her  left  hand, 
and  chanted  in  a  dreary,  toneless  voice,  as  they  passed : 
"The  false  oath,  the  false  oath!"  Some  of  the  visi 
tors  apprehensively  shivered.  Did  it  fortuitously  ap 
ply  to  them?  Had  they  sworn  any  solemn  oaths,  either 
overtly  or  impliedly,  when  they  had  taken  office,  which 
they  had  broken? 

Another  woman  left  her  place  and  hurried  across 
the  room.  In  a  firm  voice,  but  respectfully,  she  re 
quested  a  few  words  with  the  visitors.  The  very 


A  THOUSAND  FACES 

smooth  Tokay  at  luncheon  still  was  tickling  their  pal 
ates,  and  they  did  not  wish  to  refuse  so  decent-look 
ing  and  respectful  a  woman,  too  roughly.  They 
hemmed  a  little.  Finally  one  said  pompously  that  she 
must  "prefer"  her  complaint  in  writing.  Then  all 
caught  the  cue  and  passed  on,  in  stately  dignity. 

That  woman,  poor  and  ignorant,  had  not  yet  learned 
that  her  written  complaint  would  be  promptly  cen 
sored  in  the  Superintendent's  office,  its  nature  com 
municated  to  the  assistant  physician  of  the  depart 
ment,  and  then  passed  along  to  the  deputies  and  nurses, 
at  which  point  on  its  journey  the  patient  promptly 
"got  what  was  coming"  to  him  or  her.  Beautiful, 
smooth-working  system — from  the  standpoint  of  Su 
perintendent,  resident  physician  and  attendants ! 

Don,  wondering  whether  the  Board  of  Visitors  ever 
arrived  unannounced,  was  told  by  Hicks  that  in  such 
a  rare  event,  they  were  piloted  about  the  grounds  and 
farm,  on  the  plea  that  the  Superintendent  desired 
them  to  consider  at  once  a  few  improvements  he  would 
take  the  liberty  of  suggesting.  Orders  meantime  were 
swiftly  issued  to  prepare  a  "spread"  as  quickly  as 
possible.  Then,  while  the  banquet  was  on,  things  in 
side  the  institution  were  hurriedly  put  in  shape,  and 
the  farce  was  played  out  in  the  same  old  way. 

All  these  iniquities  of  humbug,  hideous  shams  of  a 
sham  civilization,  throbbed  through  Don's  brain  as  he 
walked  in  Ilex  Avenue,  Saturday  night,  and  yearned 
for  the  sight  of  Barbara.  He  felt  she  must  have  some 
information  now.  His  heart  bounded,  when  at  last 
he  saw  her  walking  swiftly  toward  him ;  but  all  at  once 
something  about  her  chilled  his  soul.  She  looked  worn, 
harassed  and  tired. 

"I  have  been  a  long  time,"  she  said  at  once  and  with 
out  a  greeting,  "and  I've  failed." 


CONFESSION  IS  GOOD  FOR  THE  SOUL    233 

"You  mean?"  he  gasped. 

"There's  no  such  person  in  that  department!" 

They  looked  deeply  at  each  other.  Don  was  pale 
and  very  grave.  He  drew  her  down  on  a  green  bench 
at  the  end  of  an  intersecting  path. 

"It  means  then,"  he  said  slowly,  "that  he  has  been 
transferred  to  some  other  institution." 

Barbara  started  at  the  suggestion. 

"I  know  now,"  continued  Don,  "that  I  saw  him 
that  night.  The  more  I've  pondered  it,  the  surer  I've 
grown.  My  belief  is,  they  were  removing  him  at  the 
very  moment  I  saw  him.  Perhaps,  they  are  alarmed 
or  suspicious.  I  have  a  friend,  a  clerk  on  the  Board 
of  Health,  Lunacy  and  Charity,  in  town,  and  he  has 
told  me  that  this  transference  business  is  an  old  trick 
by  which  they  bury  a  person  for  life." 

"You  may  be  right;  you  probably  are,"  she  an 
swered,  "yet  my  notion  is  he's  been  simply  removed  to 
some  other  department.  Maybe  those  who  paid  for 
his  room  stopped  their  remittances,  and " 

The  excitement  of  the  new  idea  brought  Don  sud 
denly  to  his  feet. 

"I  believe  that's  it,  Barbara!"  cried  he.  "Perhaps 
Winn,  Phillips  and  that  lawyer  compromised  with  their 
consciences  to  the  extent  of  making  him  a  pay-patient 
instead  of  a  pauper,  and  when  they  grew  tired  and 
ceased  troubling,  they  forgot  to  remit." 

He  stared  into  space,  his  mind  concentrated,  his 
hands  deep  in  his  pockets.  Barbara  brought  him 
back,  by  saying: 

"I  had  to  be  very  cautious  and  not  seem  too  inter 
ested.  I  made  friends  with  Mr.  Nave,  and  asked  a 
few  questions  about  the  pay  patients.  There  doesn't 
seem  to  be  any  Harold  Fitzgerald  in  that  department, 
though  he  did  say  they'd  just  gotten  rid  of  a  crazy 


234  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

inventor  who'd  given  them  more  or  less  trouble." 

"Harold,  beyond  a  doubt !"  exclaimed  Don  with  in 
tensity. 

"I'm  pretty  sure  of  it,"  she  replied.  Don  was  trem 
bling  in  excitement.  She,  on  the  contrary,  was  very 
calm,  even  smiling  slightly.  "I  told  you  my  worst 
news  first — for  I've  been  utterly  discouraged.  But 
that  is  possibly  foolish." 

"Possibly?  Certainly,  you  mean!  But  how  we  are 
to  proceed  now,  I  don't  know."  He  sat  down,  close  to 
her,  as  if  thus  to  lessen  his  perplexity,  and  both  were 
silent  for  a  moment. 

"I  think,  dear,"  he  said  at  last,  "the  time  has  come 
to  act.  We  don't  know  whether  he's  still  here  in  Al- 
landale,  or  in  another  institution;  we  don't  know  how 
long  he's  been  here — and  good  God ! — his  reason  may 
in  truth  be  tottering.  A  man  with  his  temperament, 
to  be  robbed  of  his  invention,  deserted  by  his  friends, 
and  thrust  here,  of  all  places  on  earth— 

"But  Donald,"  she  interposed,  "precipitation  on  our 
part  might  result  in  his  enemies  taking  alarm,  and 
spiriting  him  away  into  another  state.  Since  we  don't 
know  about  him  positively,  we  mustn't  take  a  leap  in 
the  dark,  dear." 

"A  leap  in  the  light,  perhaps,"  replied  Don  with  an 
optimism  that  would  have  surprised  him,  had  he  had 
time  to  reflect  on  it.  "At  any  rate,  Barbara,  I'm 
afraid  to  wait.  I  shall  notify  Dr.  Clark  right  away, 
and  we'll  take  steps  at  once  for  his  release.  You  and 
I  have  our  hands  tied,  here.  However,  my  evidence 
is  piling  up." 

At  his  words,  the  old,  worn,  harassed  look  deepened 
in  her  face. 

"I  have  things  to  tell  you,  too,"  she  said  wearily, 
"though  the  unsupported  word  of  two  attendants  will 


CONFESSION  IS  GOOD  FOR  THE  SOUL     235 

hardly    have    sufficient    weight,    I'm    afraid —  She 

paused,  then  finished  abruptly:  "I  had  an  hour  with 
Eloise  today,  and  I'm  heartsick.  My  mind  was  at 
rest  about  her.  There's  a  new  head-nurse  in  her  ward. 
Eloise  has  screamed  in  her  sleep,  it  seems,  the  last  few 
nights ;  she  has  been  nervous  and  despondent  lately, 
for  even  her  youth  can't  hold  out  against  Allandale. 
Anyway,  the  nurse,  on  the  third  night,  pulled  a  strand 
of  her  hair  out  by  the  roots,  and  told  her  she  guessed 
she'd  give  her  something  to  scream  for.  And  to 
day" — Barbara  seemed  shaken  to  the  depths  of  her 
being — "today  the  poor  child  spilled  a  cup  of  tea, 
and  the  head-nurse  struck  her  so  hard  that  one  of 
Eloise's  beautiful  front  teeth  was  broken  off.  She  has 
been  slapped  in  the  face  repeatedly  for  asking  what 
they  term  foolish  questions.  The  girl  is  growing  mu 
tinous  as  well  as  despairing,  and  I  am  helpless — help 
less- 
Barbara  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  Don  gently 
lifted  her  head,  and  held  her  face  between  his  palms. 
"Barbara,  darling!"  he  said,  desperately,  "let's 
leave  it.  I  can't  endure  to  have  you  live  this  horrible 
life.  We  can't  help  anybody  in  Allandale,  while  we're 
here.  We've  got  to  get  away.  I'll  set  the  proper  ma 
chinery  in  motion,  and  we'll  have  Harold  and  Eloise 
and  poor  old  Hicks  out  of  here  in  no  time.  Dr.  Clark 
is  back  of  me,  you  know —  He  paused  and  added 

quickly,  before  she  had  time  to  speak : 

"Barbara,  you  know  I  love  you !  I  want  to  marry 
you!  Do  you  love  me,  too — a  little?  Oh,  I  want 
you  to!" 

He  still  was  holding  her  face  between  his  palms  and 
looking  straight  into  her  eyes.  They  welled  over ;  and, 
as  the  tears  fell  on  his  hands,  he  began  staunching 
them  with  his  handkerchief,  speaking  with  eager  inco- 


236  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

herence,  the  while.  "I'm  poorer  than  the  devil,  my  girl 
— but  I  know  I  can  get  back  on  the  Star — and — 

Barbara  let  her  hand  rest  passively  in  his. 

"You  have  a  strange  effect  on  me,"  she  answered 
tremulously.  "It's  not  like  me  to  cry.  I've  never  had 
time;  and  when  I  did  have,  there  was  a  hardness  and 
bitterness  that  wouldn't  let  the  tears  come.  And — 
and — it  seems  restful  to  have  you  love  me.  I  don't 
want  you  to  stop;  but  Donald" — she  spoke  the  name 
with  infinite  sweetness — "I  haven't  any  right  to  love 
you,  and  I  can  never  marry  you,  never!  You  don't 
know  anything  about  me.  I " 

Don's  face  had  grown  tense  and  gray. 

"Barbara,  I  need  you,  simply  must  have  you,  girl. 
Must — do  you  understand?" 

Tearless  now,  but  very  silent  was  she.  Don  went 
on,  fiercely. 

"Tell  me  this:  do  you  love  me?"  She  bowed  her 
head,  for  all  answer.  His  face  grew  for  an  instant 
radiant;  then  he  asked,  fearfully: 

"Are  you — oh,  Barbara,  you're  not  married?" 

He  was  hanging  on  her  words,  but  she  had  thrust 
him  from  her  and  caught  at  her  breast  as  if  suffocat 
ing. 

"I'm  not  married,  no,  no !"  she  cried  in  agony.  "But 
— oh,  Donald — you  wouldn't  love  me  or  ask  me  to 
marry  you,  if  you  knew " 

She  paled;  her  voice  grew  strained  and  harsh. 
Don's  face  calmed. 

"Do  you  think  so,  dear?"  he  soothed  her.  "Do  you 
really  think  so?  Listen,  darling.  Marry  me,  and  your 
past  shall  be  as  if  it  hadn't  ever  been.  I  shall  never 
ask  you  a  question,  not  one,  you  understand?  God  in 
Heaven,  Barbara,  don't  do  that!" 

His  tone  was  horror-stricken,  for  in  the  soft  and 


CONFESSION  IS  GOOD  FOR  THE  SOUL    237 

fragrant  dusk  she  had  sunk  at  his  feet,  and  had  abased 
her  head  to  his  knees.  He  raised  her,  held  her  for  a 
moment  in  what  she  felt  was  a  clasp  of  supreme  ten 
derness. 

"No  man  is  ever  fit  for  a  woman  to  kneel  to,"  whis 
pered  he.  "Least  of  all  am  I.  How  fearfully  you 
must  have  suffered,  darling  Barbara,  to — to  bring  you 
to  this  utter  self-abasement !" 

His  face,  pale  in  the  dimness,  was  transfigured  with 
a  sudden  spiritual  beauty.  "Here,  tonight,"  he  said, 
"we'll  forget  all  that  has  ever  been  and  start  our  lives 
over  again.  We'll  be  born  anew!" 

But  she  drew  herself  away  from  him. 

"Listen,  listen !"  she  stammered  brokenly,  "you  don't 
know ;  you  don't  understand !  I  will  write  you.  I'm 
far  too  shaken  to  tell  you  now.  After  you  know — 
then  I  will  listen,  if  you  choose,  but — I  know  how  it 
will  be — you'll  not  want  me,  then.  This  is  good-bye. 
That  past  is  a  hideous  dream.  I  love  you,  Donald, 
and  shall  always  love  you.  And  because  I  do  love 
you,  I — I  can  never — marry  you !  Oh  God !" 

"That's  all  there  is  to  it,  then?"  Don  persisted. 

"I  can't  explain  what  it  was  I  felt  once,  for  that 
other  man.  I  thought — God  knows — I  thought  at 
one  time  I  really  did  love  him.  But  it  couldn't  have 
been  so !"  She  sobbed  heart-brokenly.  "Why,  of 
course  it  couldn't;  for  I  love  you,  Donald — you — you 
only !" 

"Who  was  he?  Tell  me,  Barbara,  at  once!"  cried 
Don,  with  a  fierce  grip  on  her  wrists. 

Barbara's  eyes  flashed  with  determination. 

"Yes,  it's  your  right,"  she  answered,  "I  was  cow 
ardly  to  try  and  put  this  off,  or  talk  of  writing  it. 
Let  go  my  wrists,  and  listen.  Your  touch  unnerves 
me.  I  ought  to  have  told  you  this  at  the  very  start, 


238  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

Don,  and  not  have  let  you  begin  to  care  for  me,  and 
go  on  caring.  It  wasn't  a  square  deal." 

He  raised  a  protesting  hand. 

"Don't  interrupt  me!"  she  commanded.  "Let  me 
rush  this  to  the  end,  while  I  have  strength.  I'm  sick 
of  deceit  and  all  the  pestilent  things  that  spring  from 
it.  My  life  was  full  of  blackness — foulness — till  I 
broke  from  it  like  a  vile  drug  habit — and  then,  and 
then- — met  you!" 

She  lingered  over  the  last  sentence  with  a  tone  of 
love  and  pathos  that  thrilled  him  to  his  heart's  core. 
Then  she  caught  herself  together  again,  and  continued 
with  even  more  firmness : 

"When  I  was  barely  fifteen,  my  folks — they  were 
very  poor — decided  I  should  become  a  trained  nurse. 
They  sent  me  to  the  private  hospital  of — of  Sydney 
Phillips." 

"Oh,  God !"  Don  groaned,  starting  back  a  little. 
"That  devil?" 

"He  was  a  surgeon  of  note,  even  then,  in  the  North 
west,"  Barbara  proceeded,  unflinchingly.  "Strange  as 
it  may  seem  to  a  man,  I  had  always  wanted  to  be  a 
surgeon  from  the  day  in  early  childhood  I  mended  a 
doll  some  charitable  neighbor  had  given  me.  The 
work  was  hard  and  often  shocking  to  eyes  and  nerves, 
but  I  conquered  these  repulsions.  Lumberjacks  from 
the  woods,  miners  from  the  camps,  herders  from  the 
ranges,  and  sailors  from  the  lakes,  with  all  their  dread 
ful  injuries  and  diseases,  were  brought  to  the  hospital. 

"My  training  was  truly  like  an  ordeal  by  fire  and 
steel.  Dr.  Phillips  never  spares  any  one  who  can  be  use 
ful  to  him.  I  grew  to  be  invaluable,  almost  like  a  third 
hand  to  him.  And  my  ambition  burned.  I  yearned 
for  the  time  when  I  could  write  myself  'P.  &  S.'  But 
I  knew  I  must  have  money  to  achieve  my  ambition,  and 


CONFESSION  IS  GOOD  FOR  THE  SOUL     239 

as  yet  I  had  earned  none.  I  was  only  a  handy  appren 
tice,  not  even  a  wage-slave." 

Don's  head  tossed  up  at  this  last  word,  as  if  it  had 
been  a  trumpet-call  from  Dr.  Clark. 

"When  I  was  seventeen,  he  began  to  take  particular 
note  of  me,  and  now  and  then  showed  me  unexpected 
small  attentions,  which  I  mistook  for  kindnesses.  I 
was  deeply  grateful  and  began  to  like  him  very  much, 
to  look  for  his  call  or  his  coming  every  day.  How 
shall  I  tell  of  the  slow  sapping  of  any  moral  nature 
or  instincts  I  may  have  had?  He  knew  my  ambition 
and  played  on  that.  He  knew,  as  a  physician,  the 
facile  moments  even  the  best  girls  have,  when  they  do 
not  realize  their  danger.  Unused  to  kindness,  I  was 
half,  if  not  wholly,  fascinated  by  his  brilliant  person 
ality.  I  didn't  comprehend  at  first  that,  in  order  to 
realize  my  dream  of  a  career — word  of  blight  for  so 
many  women ! — I  must  pay  the  price." 

"Damn  him !"  Don  muttered,  his  face  livid,  both 
fists  clenched  hard. 

"You  must  know  how  black  my  sin  was,"  Barbara 
continued.  "He  was  married.  That  it  took  months 
of  persistence  on  his  part  is  nothing  to  my  credit.  He 
had  promised  to  marry  me,  when  his  wife,  a  morphine 
victim,  died.  She  suspected  our  relation  after  a  time. 
He  sent  me  to  St.  Paul,  to  get  my  degree,  and  later  I 
took  up  private  practice.  He  insisted  on  my  remain 
ing  near.  Then  one  of  his  eyes  was  injured,  and  for 
a  year  he  had  me  back  in  his  hospital,  secretly  per 
forming  his  most  delicate  operations.  I  bungled  a 
very  important  one.  He  had  made  me  nervous,  and 
my  conscience  was  beginning  to  awaken  and  make  me 
loathe  the  bond,  although  I  still  hoped  at  times  he 
would  sometime  marry  me." 

"Damnation,  wo/"  roared  Don,  like  a  wounded  bull. 


240  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

"Then,  though  I  had  no  other  man  in  mind,"  said 
Barbara,  "I  realized  such  a  marriage  would  be  even 
a  fouler  sin,  and  I  began  to  be  glad  of  bitter,  gloomy 
signs  on  his  part.  I  was  becoming  irksome.  I  went 
to  his  study  one  evening  over  a  year  ago  and  told  him 
I  was  bound  to  break  off  my  life  with  him,  as  if  it 
were  a  drug-habit.  He  insulted  me  grossly,  of  course. 
I  have  earned  all  sorts  of  insults.  But  his  dying  wife, 
concealed  in  the  medicine  closet  to  spy  on  us,  came  to 
my  rescue  from  his  insolence.  She  fell.  I  caught  her 
in  my  arms  and  carried  her  to  her  room.  She  spoke 
forgivingly  and  encouragingly,  and  bade  me  go  at  once. 
I  stripped  off  the  trinkets  he  had  given  me,  left  them 
on  my  dresser,  and  with  money  of  my  own  earning 
took  the  midnight  train  for  Boston,  determined  to  get 
as  far  away  from  him,  and  my  past,  as  possible. 

"That's  my  confession,  straight  as  I  can  make  it. 
Now,  Donald,  I  know  you  can't  want  me  as  your  wife. 
I  know  I  may  have  the  comfort  of  your  respect  for 
my  honesty,  but  I  must  go  at  once  out  of  your " 

"Enough!  I've  heard  enough — too  much!"  he  cried 
hoarsely,  roughly.  "By  God,  I  do  want  you!  I  think 
you're  the  straightest  thing  that  ever  came  down  the 
pike.  I'm  bound  to  have,  and  earn  you,  too !" 

Barbara  swayed  toward  him,  tears  of  strange  glory 
blinding  her.  The  next  instant  his  arms  were  tight 
about  her,  and  he  was  holding  her  so  close,  close  to 
his  leaping  heart.  Then  he  relaxed  his  embrace,  very 
tenderly  raised  the  glorious  head  that  had  sunk  on 
his  shoulder,  and  kissed  her  first  upon  the  forehead. 

He  bent  his  face  lower,  murmuring,  "You  are  my 
wife,  sweet  Barbara!"  His  lips  met  hers,  that  melted 
up  to  his.  When  he  looked  at  her  face  once  more,  she 
whispered:  "I  seem  to  float  in  a  dream,  Donald — or 
is  this  Heaven?" 


CONFESSION  IS  GOOD  FOR  THE  SOUL     241 

"It's  just  a  beginning,  my  darling!"  he  replied, 
kissing  now  her  hair.  "A  beginning  of  the  Heaven 
you  can  make,  if  you  will,  for  me !" 

"I  will !"  she  promised  solemnly. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

Harold's   Long  Fight 

AS  he  passed  through  the  corridor,  that  night,  Don 
found  in  the  mail-rack  a  bundle  of  newspapers 
and  a  letter,  which  he  opened  instantly  on  reaching  his 
room.     It  was  written  in  the  cipher  arranged  between 
Dr.  Clark  and  himself,  and  translated  thus: 

"Have  received  reports  by  underground.  You  are 
doing  well.  Photograph  assaults,  if  possible,  and 
wait  till  something  startling  occurs  before  leaving, 
even  if  you  have  to  exceed  the  time-limit  proposed." 

His  happy  face  made  a  grimace  of  chagrin  at  the 
prospect  of  being  immured  many  days  longer,  when 
he  was  ardently  eager  to  be  out  in  the  world  again, 
making  a  place  for  Barbara.  Rather  irritably  he 
ripped  open  the  bundle  of  Boston  newspapers  Dr. 
George  had  the  thoughtful  habit  of  mailing  him  twice 
or  thrice  a  week.  Hitherto,  he  hadn't  paid  much  at 
tention  to  these.  As  a  newspaper  man,  long  on  the 
inside  of  the  game,  he  entertained  slight  respect  for 
the  press.  Still  vexed,  he  was  about  to  throw  them 
aside,  when  this  announcement  caught  his  eye: 

Invention  of  Calvin  Winn.  New  Machine  to  Use 
Power  Condensed  in  Tiny  Packages.  Big  Plant  Run 
ning  Day  and  Night  to  Supply  Demand.  Million  for 
Stockholders.  Stock  Twice  Par  and  StiU  Steadily 
Rising. 

242 


HAROLD'S  LONG  FIGHT 

Don's  blood  cooled  rapidly  as  he  read  the  article 
through.  The  whole  damnable  conspiracy  was  clear. 
Yes,  there  was  the  name  of  the  Hon.  Jacob  Jackberry, 
Secretary  of  the  Syndicate;  and  Phillips  was  Vice- 
president.  According  to  the  paper,  the  thing  was  a 
wonder,  a  whirlwind !  The  power  problem  of  the  cen 
turies  had  been  solved.  The  marvel  was  both  chemi 
cal  and  mechanical.  Genius  had  worked  out  a  way  of 
combining  certain  common  elements  of  earth,  scooped 
up  almost  anywhere,  into  little  briquettes  of  potential 
power,  safer  and  more  certain  than  electricity.  These, 
brought  into  contact  with  a  very  small  machine  of  in 
tricate  device,  gave  out  a  tremendous,  long-sustained 
energy.  There  was  no  mention  of  Harold  Fitzgerald. 

With  an  oath,  Don  turned  the  page.  As  if  the  week 
had  not  been  crammed  full  enough  of  tangles,  the  name 
of  Yetive  Soule  stared  out  at  him. 

The  first  paragraph  of  the  notice  ran  thus: 

"Married,  on  Wednesday  afternoon,  July  26th,  at  4 
o'clock,  in  the  Empire  room  of  the  Stafford  Hotel,  Yetive 
Soule  and  Dr.  Sydney  Phillips,  Rev.  John  McNary  of  the 
First  Presbyterian  Church  officiating." 

Don  read,  with  swelling  anger: 

"Mrs.  Phillips  is  the  original  of  the  celebrated  picture 
in  the  National  Art  Exhibit  held  in  Boston  a  few  months 
ago,  over  which  there  has  been  such  a  furore.  The  public 
will  be  interested  to  know  that  'The  Vampire'  has  been  on 
exhibition  in  several  foreign  countries  since  it  was  here.  It 
has  not  only  given  Henri  de  Sallier  world-wide  fame,  but 
has  made  Yetive  Soule  (now  Mrs.  Phillips)  a  beauty  with 
an  international  reputation.  Dr.  Phillips  is  a  distinguished 
surgeon,  who  retired  some  time  ago  from  the  practice  of 
his  profession,  in  Minneapolis,  to  become  heavily  interested 
in  the  already  famous  and  successful  Neo-Geo  Co.  Dr. 


A  THOUSAND  FACES 

and  Mrs.  Phillips  plan  to  start  for  the  Orient  soon,  and 
expect  to  spend  several  years  traveling  slowly  through  In 
dia,  Dr.  Phillips  being  still  experimentally  interested  in 
the  chemical  properties  of  rare  plants." 

Another  surprise  came  to  Don  next  morning — this 
note  from  Barbara: 

"Donald,  are  you  quite  sure  you  haven't  begun  to  repent 
your  magnanimity?" 

He  frowned  at  this,  and  wrote  a  reply  instanter: 

"My  Darling!  Magnanimity  would  cease  to  be  such,  if 
it  ever  repented.  In  this  case  there  has  been  none — as  yet. 
You  have  not  heard  the  story  of  my  sins.  I  shall  have  to 
tell  you,  of  course,  and  crave  absolution.  Then  you,  by 
your  sweetness,  will  teach  me  to  forget  them  entirely. 
Meet  me,  if  you  can,  for  a  few  moments  this  evening.  I 
have  curious  news  confirming  our  suspicions  beyond  a 
doubt — and  I  long  to  be  near  you!  Ever  your  Don." 

Barbara,  after  reading  this  note,  tucked  it  into  her 
bosom  to  companion  her  through  the  trials  of  the  day. 
It  made  her  lover  seem  very  noble.  No  reference  was 
there  to  her  sins,  but  only  a  prayer  for  pardon.  She 
could  almost  have  prayed  that  his  sins  had  been  red 
der  than  blood,  so  she  might  revel  in  the  luxury  of 
forgiving  him — she  who  in  her  humility  had  felt  so 
deep  a  need  of  forgiveness,  and  yet  who,  withal,  had 
been  so  deeply  wronged. 

That  evening  it  happened  both  could  find  only  a 
few  minutes'  freedom,  so  they  had  barely  time  for  an 
embrace.  Don  thrust  the  paper  into  her  hands ;  and 
bade  her  read  it  and  meet  him  on  their  next  afternoon 
off — by  maneuvering  he  had  contrived  to  have  his  day 
off  fall  on  the  same  day  with  hers — near  the  little 


HAROLD'S  LONG  FIGHT  245 

grove  on  the  extreme  north  end  of  Allandale  farm,  to 
perfect  their  plans  about  Harold,  Eloise  and  Hicks. 

That  tryst  seemed,  after  the  fashion  of  all  for  which 
men  really  yearn,  very  damnably  slow  in  coming.  Don, 
flat  on  his  back  under  the  shade  of  a  big  oak,  looking 
mightily  at  ease,  was  inwardly  chafing.  Barbara  was 
late.  What  could  be  detaining  her? 

He  sat  up  and  looked  hungrily  toward  the  gray 
stone  building  in  the  distance. 

She  was  coming,  walking  very  swiftly,  almost  run 
ning.  Don's  heart  began  to  pound.  Something  was 
wrong.  That  hurrying  figure  showed  it  subtly  to  his 
acute  and  well-trained  eye.  She  was  not  simply  has 
tening  to  her  lover.  He  sprang  up  and  went  to  meet 
her,  walking  nervously  himself.  She  was  pale  as 
milk. 

"Oh,  Don — Don !"  she  panted. 

He  caught  her  hands  and  gazed  into  her  agitated 
face. 

"Eloise  has  killed  herself !" 

Don  stared,  aghast. 

"She — she's  kitted  herself?"  he  stammered.  "How — 
when?" 

He  was  almost  as  agitated  as  Barbara,  for  he  had 
come  to  take  a  personal  interest  in  the  girl.  A  wave 
of  remorse  swept  over  him. 

"I've  waited  too  long!"  he  cried.  "I  should  have 
acted  long  ago,  and  now  it's  too  late.  I'm  responsible 
for  that  poor  child's  death.  Oh,  God,"  he  groaned  in 
anguish. 

"Hush!"  Barbara  had  regained  control  of  herself. 
"You  couldn't  have  helped  poor  Eloise.  Dr.  Clark 
knows  best.  By  being  too  hasty  you  would  have  helped 
nobody.  That  many  may  be  helped,  we  must  go 
slowly,  even  though  our  hearts  break  with  the  waiting. 


246  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

We  mustn't  be  too  deeply  grieved  even  now,  heartless 
as  it  may  appear.  There's  Harold  to  think  of, 
and—  "  but  already  the  tears  were  rolling  down  her 
cheeks  and  she  could  not  go  on. 

"How  did  it  happen?"  began  Don  again,  reverting 
to  his  first  questions. 

"She  hanged  herself.  It's  too  terrible  for  words. 
They  used  to  say  at  the  hospital,"  she  continued  with 
a  wan  smile,  "that  my  chief  asset  was  my  unshakable 
poise.  It's  all  gone  now.  I  liked  poor  little  Eloise 
and  it  seemed  as  if  she  belonged  to  me,  some  way — 

She  paused.     Don  waited,  reverentially. 

"It  was  a  few  minutes  after  I  was  released  from 
duty.  I  went  to  my  room  to  change  my  uniform.  On 
my  way  back,  the  new  head-nurse  stopped  me  in  the 
hall  to  take  a  message  to  the  attendant  in  Ward  Two. 
That  is  Eloise's. 

"It  was  an  unusual  request,  as  I  am  not  under  her 
authority.  I  saw  she  had  been  drinking.  I  hadn't 
seen  Eloise  for  nearly  a  week,  not  since  her  conflict 
with  the  new  nurse,  and  at  that  time  she  had  been  in  a 
mutinous  and  highly  emotional  state.  As  I  stood 
there,  a  terror  seized  me,  the  foreshadow  of  what  was 
to  come.  But  I  told  the  nurse  I'd  be  glad  to  go ;  and 
I  was.  It  being  the  quiet  hour  in  the  ward,  I  clung  to 
a  hope,  in  spite  of  my  fearful  misgiving,  that  I  might 
have  a  word  or  two,  at  least  a  glance,  from  Eloise. 

"I  opened  the  door.     The  attendant  was  quietly  sit 
ting  in  a  corner  near  the  window,  reading  a  book.    This 
ought  to  have  reassured  me,  but  it  didn't.     I  glanced 
around  the  room,  my  eyes  searching  for  Eloise — 
Barbara  caught  her  breath  with  a  sob. 

"And  then?"  ejaculated  Don. 

"Against  the  wall  something  was  hanging.  At 
first — the  room  is  big  and  that  wall  in  shadow — I 


HAROLD'S  LONG  FIGHT  247 

thought  it  was  a  bundle  of  clothing;  but  instantly — I 
saw.  She  had  made  a  rope  of  a  sheet  and  her  apron 
and  had  hanged  herself  deftly  while  the  attendant  was 
actually  sitting  in  the  room.  It  seerns  unbelievable. 

"I  ran  toward  Eloise,  calling  as  I  ran,  'Look  at  your 
patient !' 

"The  book  dropped.  The  attendant  shrieked:  'Oh, 
my  God !'  Then  she  had  sense  enough  to  fetch  a  knife, 
and  we  cut  her  down. 

"She  fell  to  the  floor  like  an  empty  sack.  We 
worked  over  her — but  the  doctors  said  she  had  done 
a  bad  job  well." 

"Poor  little  girl!"  said  Don.  "Poor,  poor  little 
girl!" 

"The  tragedy  of  it  all  is  that  nothing  can  be  done," 
went  on  Barbara,  after  a  minute's  pause.  "She's  with 
out  friends  or  kindred  to  utter  a  protest,  and  nobody 
will  ever  know  that  her  despair  over  a  living  entomb 
ment  made  her  kill  herself.  The  word  that  will  go 
out  to  the  world  (if  even  a  whisper  of  it  ever  does  get 
past  this  Bastile)  will  be  that  a  patient  killed  herself 
while  suffering  from  a  violent  attack  of  dementia. 

"And  I  had  thought  Eloise's  youth  would  sustain 
her,  would  help  her  to  hope.  Instead,  it  made  her 
despair  the  blacker.  She  was  high-spirited  and  tem 
peramental,  and  the  treatment  of  last  week  utterly 
broke  her  heart." 

Barbara  and  Don  sat  down  in  the  grove.  A  weari 
ness  lay  upon  them  both,  and  they  did  not  speak  for 
a  while. 

"I  must  go  back  in  a  few  minutes,  dearest,"  said 
Barbara  finally.  "I'm  far  too  shaken,  still,  to  talk  or 
plan  things  this  afternoon,  and  I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to 
be  near — her." 

Ten  minutes  later,  Barbara  was  taking  leave  of  Don. 


248  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

He  had  walked  half  way  to  the  building  with  her,  and 
was  about  to  turn  toward  Ilex  Avenue  and  the  south 
gate.  On  impulse  he  had  decided  to  take  the  train  to 
Boston  for  a  hurried  consultation  with  Dr.  Clark, 
and  to  return  on  the  evening  train. 

They  stood  for  a  moment  watching  a  score  of  pa 
tients  emerge  from  the  north  entrance  in  charge  of 
two  attendants.  Barbara  suddenly  started,  as  her  eye 
travelled  down  the  long  line  and  rested  on  a  slim  and 
graceful,  though  drooping,  figure  near  the  end.  At 
the  same  instant  Don  gripped  her  arm  with  a  pressure 
that  hurt,  his  breath  coming  hard. 

"It's  Harold!"  he  whispered.     "Do  you  see  him?" 

"Will  he  see  us — will  he?"  Barbara  was  murmuring 
tensely.  "Put  yourself  in  his  path  some  way — hurry, 
hurry!  It  will  give  him  hope  and  heart,  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  you — quick!" 

Don  left  her,  speaking  no  other  word.  With  a  su 
preme  effort  at  unconcern  he  strolled  forward  and 
leaned  nonchalantly  against  a  tree.  There  was  just  a 
bare  chance  the  line,  in  passing,  might  swerve  that  way. 
He  had  no  time  to  approach  closer.  His  heart  leaped, 
as  the  line  swerved.  Would  the  slender,  boyish  figure 
see  him,  and  if  he  saw,  would  he  recognize? 

The  line  passed.  Don  sank  to  the  rustic  seat  near 
by,  every  pulse  throbbing.  As  long  as  life  should  last, 
he  was  never  to  forget  the  look  in  Harold's  eyes,  as 
their  glances  met. 

The  wan,  drawn  face  flushed.  A  stare  of  wild,  in 
credulous  recognition  changed  on  the  instant  to  an 
indescribable,  buoyant  look  of  hope.  With  all  the 
force  of  his  being,  Don  had  sent,  in  his  own  glance,  a 
message  pregnant  with  meaning — and  Harold  had  un 
derstood.  For  just  the  fraction  of  a  second,  Harold 
had  faltered;  then  he  had  braced  himself  and  his  face 


had  resumed  its  pale,  impenetrable  abstraction.  But 
the  electric  message  had  been  sent,  received  and  an 
swered. 

That  moment,  when  Harold  looked  into  eyes  he 
knew,  was  the  turn  of  the  balance  for  him.  How 
closely  he  had  grazed  madness,  he  suddenly  realized. 
The  contact  of  their  glances  had  cleared  his  brain. 

For  the  first  time  since  the  hour  when  that  flaming 
bunch  of  scarlet  salvia  had  burned  itself  into  his  visual 
memory  on  the  afternoon  he  had  been  brought  to  Al- 
landale,  was  he  now  quite  sure  he  was  not  really  mad 
— sure  that  the  hideous  pall  laid  upon  his  senses  for 
all  those  endless  months  was  not  reality,  and  that  his 
dreams  were  not  delusions  obsessing  him.  For,  from 
the  hour  when  he  had  come  to  himself  within  the  walls 
of  Allandale,  he  had  not  looked  upon  a  face  he  knew 
or  spoken  to  anyone  who  for  one  moment  had  assumed 
he  might  be  sane.  Through  endless  weeks  he  had  wel 
tered  in  a  multitude  of  primitive  and  complex  emo 
tions,  until  all  definite  thought  had  seemed  suspended, 
and  he  had  sunk  into  a  dull  lethargy  that  rested  his 
numbed  brain. 

Beyond  a  certain  point  the  human  heart  can  bear  no 
more;  and  when  the  climax  of  suffering  has  been 
reached,  there  comes  anesthesia,  while  tortured  mind 
and  body  rest  for  fresh  travail. 

After  the  first  awful  shock  of  knowledge  that  he  had 
been  betrayed  and  was  the  victim  of  foul  conspiracy, 
he  had  taken  it  very  coolly.  The  memory  of  that  night 
at  Faneuil  Hall  rose  upon  him.  Dr.  Clark  had  spoken 
the  truth.  There  was,  thank  God,  at  least  one  man  in 
the  world  who  dared  to  speak  it  smitingly  in  all  its 
terrible,  naked  beauty. 

Harold  had  said  to  himself  at  first,  that  night,  the 
outrages  described  by  Dr.  George  simply  could  not  be. 


250  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

Now  he  knew  that  such  monstrous  things  are.  Yet, 
after  the  first  horror  had  subsided,  he  had  felt  no  fear, 
for  his  brain  had  reiterated  the  simple  assertion  that 
such  injustice  could  not  persist.  For  days  and  days 
he  had  repeated  these  words  incessantly,  to  stay  his 
fainting  courage.  He  would  soon  find  a  way  out,  he 
told  himself! 

It  had  taken  him  three  days  to  gain  access  to  the 
Superintendent.  The  interview  dizzied  him.  Dr.  Wil 
son  listened  with  an  abstracted  air  and  soothingly  told 
him  he  had  broken  down  through  overwork;  but  that 
he  was  likely,  after  a  few  months  of  perfect  rest  and 
scientific  treatment,  to  be  restored  to  his  friends. 
Dazed,  well-nigh  stunned,  Harold  yet  was  polite 
enough  to  thank  Dr.  Wilson  and  bow  himself  out  on 
the  arm  of  the  accompanying  attendant. 

Convinced  that  Don  would  take  steps  to  discover 
his  whereabouts,  Harold  now  waited  in  daily  expect 
ancy.  Gradually  the  expectancy  dimmed  into  doubt, 
doubt  darkened  into  dread,  dread  blackened  into  de 
spair.  Came  then  a  spell  of  deadly  bitterness.  Don 
had  deserted  him;  he  was  all  alone. 

His  helplessness  for  a  while  enveloped  him  like  an 
actual  thick  mist,  amid  which  he  dimly  discerned  other 
helpless  phantom  figures  drearily  moving  about.  He 
felt  that  he  must  give  Don  at  least  one  atom  of  credit : 
Don  had  given  fair  warning,  in  having  confessed  him 
self  "a  creature  of  cicatrices  and  abysses."  This  odd 
phrase  of  his  newspaper  comrade  rang  in  his  head  for 
days,  and  maddeningly  haunted  him. 

He  now  nerved  himself  to  envisage  his  problem  at 
its  worst.  Jackberry,  Winn  and  Phillips,  he  now  un 
derstood,  were  villains  with  clear  heads,  playing  a  big 
game  charged  with  dangerous  possibilities  of  detection, 
exposure,  ruin,  jail.  There  was  slight  possibility  that 


HAROLD'S  LONG  FIGHT  251 

they  had  overlooked  anything;  omitted  any  precau 
tion  to  ensure  their  safety  from  the  moment  they  had 
drugged  him,  as  they  must  have,  to  secure  his  incar 
ceration  at  Allandale. 

Later,  in  torturing  moments  of  bewilderment,  he 
wondered  whether  Don,  too,  were  not  an  actor  in  the 
hellish  plot.  Vague  suspicions,  engendered  by  his 
present  environment,  pressed  upon  him  like  a  miasma 
and  began  to  poison  his  memory.  Was  Dr.  Phillips' 
arrival  in  Boston  a  prearranged  affair?  Don  had  ad 
mitted  knowing  Jackberry  and  Winn,  and  had  spoken 
of  them  rather  favorably.  What  had  Don  been  doing 
in  the  picture-gallery  that  day?  It  looked  suspicious. 
And  that  woman  with  Dr.  Phillips — Yetive  Soule, 
Don's  former  wife.  It  was  a  plot  and  Don  was  in  it, 
of  course!  Why  hadn't  he  seen  that  at  once? 

Over  and  over  again,  until  his  heart  was  a  dull 
pounding  hammer  and  his  brain  a  congealing  clod,  did 
he  rehearse  every  event,  every  word  and  phrase  and 
look  of  the  past  weeks.  His  father's  dying  intuition 
had  been  true.  Dr.  Phillips  had  been  his  evil  genius 
from  the  hour  the  physician  had  looked  upon  his  in 
vention.  In  all  probability,  Dr.  Phillips  had  hastened 
that  loved  father's  end.  He  cursed  Phillips,  and 
'!  Shively,  too — surely  a  confederate — with  incredible 
bitterness  of  soul,  while  the  sweat  of  agony  started 
from  his  forehead. 

Through  sleepless  nights  he  wondered  about  his  in 
vention,  his  imagination  following  the  conspirators 
through  every  detail  of  organization,  and  seeing  them 
rich  and  famous.  And  it  was  for  this  he  had  labored, 
and  hoped ;  for  this  he  had  dreamed  of  doing  good,  of 
diffusing  blessings?  At  these  moments,  Harold  often 
stood  perilously  close  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  near  the 
maelstrom. 


252  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

Came  intervals  of  calm,  when  he  reasoned  coldly  and 
in  a  detached  way,  as  if  the  things  that  had  happened 
to  Harold  Fitzgerald  were  no  concern  of  his.  He 
wondered,  then,  why  he  had  confused  Dr.  Martin  Winn 
with  his  brother  Calvin.  He  saw  things  clearly  now 
— the  drugged  wine,  the  after-draught  that  had  ap 
parently  cleared  his  brain,  only  to  confuse  it  more 
subtly;  and  that  hour  before  the  probate  judge, 
wherein  he  had  been  convicted  out  of  his  own  mouth. 
This  part  his  reflection  could  not  quite  clear  up.  Just 
what  he  had  said,  in  the  jumble  of  his  senses,  he  could 
not  recall.  But  some  high-flown  prophecy,  some  boast 
about  his  invention  he  had  the  impression  of  having 
uttered.  Of  course,  the  judge  had  been  prepared  for 
a  madman's  visit  and  had  probably  been  quite  inno 
cent.  .  .  .  That  noble  characteristic  of  this  boy's 
mind — his  aim  to  be  absolutely  just — had  not  yet  been 
eaten  out  by  the  air  of  the  madhouse. 

At  other  times  he  wondered  about  matters  at  home ; 
who  was  occupying  his  house;  what  had  become  of  his 
letters ;  and  whether  there  had  been  any  inquiries  for 
him  at  the  Boston  apartment  by  acquaintances  he  had 
casually  made.  Was  it  possible  that  one  could  disap 
pear  from  the  face  of  the  earth  like  this  and  never  a 
question  be  asked?  Possible  that  he  who  had  hoped  to 
be  a  savior,  an  emancipator,  had  filled  so  small  a  niche 
in  the  throbbing,  teeming  world  outside,  that  his  per 
sonality  could  be  obliterated,  blotted  out,  wiped  away 
as  if  he  had  been  a  mannikin  on  a  slate? 

With  thoughts  like  these  he  travailed  until  he  lost 
count  of  the  days,  and  bodily  prostration  held  him 
down.  There  had  come,  too,  days  of  physical  revolt — 
but  not  at  first.  Some  mental  misery  is  so  acute  that 
for  a  long  time  it  does  not  sense  the  physical  environ 
ment;  the  body  mechanically  lives  on. 


HAROLD'S  LONG  FIGHT  £53 

Autumn  waned,  and  the  short,  bleak  days  of  winter 
came,  that  were  to  leave  their  imprint  on  his  soul  for 
ever.  Hour  after  hour  he  stared  steadily  out  at  the 
whirling,  eddying  snow  until  a  numb,  paralyzing  stu 
por  crept  over  him. 

If  only,  he  said  to  himself  in  agony,  if  only  he  had 
something  tangible  opposing  him,  something  concretely 
aggressive  and  formidable,  he  could  gird  himself  for 
the  struggle — but  this  nothingness,  this  sinister  white 
silence,  was  as  if  he  had  tried  to  catch  at  snowflakes 
that  sifted  through  his  fingers. 

Then,  long  weeks  his  own  temperament  came  to  be 
his  worst  enemy.  That  melancholy  strain  of  North 
Ireland  in  his  blood,  the  dreaming,  sensitive,  mystic 
strain,  very  nearly  did  the  business  that  Jackberry 
had  calculated  it  would ;  well-nigh  unhinged  his  rea 
son.  The  thwarting  of  his  hopes,  the  theft  of  his  in 
vention,  the  thing  dearest  in  life  to  him,  caused  moods 
of  burning,  fevered  revolt.  And  these,  with  fits  of 
apathy  alternately  engendered  by  his  racial  strain  of 
melancholy,  brought  him  to  a  physical  state  close  on 
collapse. 

But  the  canny  Scandinavian  side  of  him  put  up  a 
magnificent  fight.  It  counseled  caution  and  patience; 
and  then  his  blood  cooled  and  his  brain  ceased  its  ter 
rible  throbbing,  so  that  sometimes  there  were  weeks 
when  despair  was  wholly  routed. 

During  one  of  these  intervals  he  planned  systematic 
exercise  to  keep  him  in  physical  trim,  and  devised 
mental  gymnastics  as  well;  and  he  unobtrusively  stud 
ied  the  men  and  women  about  him,  found  out  all  he 
could  of  the  institution  and  its  particular  system,  and 
observed  officials  and  attendants  so  well  that  the  con 
clusions  he  drew  were  fairly  accurate.  For  a  while  he 
thought  nothing  in  particular  of  the  fact  that  he  was 


254  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

a  pay-patient  and  had  a  fairly  comfortable  room,  with 
decent  food.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  his  lot  was 
better  than  any  of  the  others ;  for,  during  the  earlier 
weeks,  when  he  was  holding  at  bay  that  dread  foe, 
madness,  a-crouch — a  tiger  fain  to  spring — his  intro 
spection  had  been  too  compellent  to  permit  his  taking 
note  of  things  external.  But  presently  he  discovered 
he  was  a  more  or  less  privileged  character,  like  all  the 
pay-patients. 

Evidently  Jackberry — he  felt  sure  the  lawyer  had 
been  the  actual  instigator  of  every  move — had  felt  com 
pelled  to  make  some  sort  of  compromise  in  the  matter, 
for  he  hadn't  quite  dared  to  cast  him  utterly  upon 
the  mercies  of  the  State.  Then  he  began  to  speculate 
whether  his  having  property  in  Minneapolis  might  not 
affect  his  legal  status  in  Massachusetts,  and  how,  un 
der  the  circumstances,  he  could  have  been  committed 
to  an  institution  of  an  alien  state.  There  seemed  a 
screw  loose  here,  which  might  be  tightened  on  them 
when  he  should  have  escaped  and  begun  his  attack. 

At  any  rate,  whatever  story  the  conspirators  had 
concocted,  they  had  so  far  done  their  work  well.  Not 
a  scrap  of  information  was  obtainable  from  any 
source.  His  was  an  absolute  isolation. 

During  the  long  period  when  he  fought  despair  suc 
cessfully,  he  took  notes.  Most  of  the  male  nurses  had 
come  from  the  logging  camps  of  the  north  country, 
where  they  had  been  under  rigid  and  often  cruel  do 
minion.  They  were  ignorant,  vicious,  bigoted,  super 
stitious.  They  gloried  in  their  newly-acquired  power 
and  their  uniforms.  These  latter,  Harold  saw,  seemed 
in  the  eyes  of  these  brutes  to  confer  an  actual  power 
and  authority  upon  them,  which  they  took  a  childish 
delight  in  exercising.  They  ate  enormously,  and  got 
drunk  as  often  as  they  dared.  Then  they  became  bes- 


HAROLD'S  LONG  FIGHT  255 

tial  demons,  finding  in  the  Asylum  secure  means  of 
gratifying  every  instinct  of  brutality  and  lust. 

He  had  less  opportunity,  of  course,  for  observing 
the  women  attendants.  Often  they  were  of  the  same 
type — large  of  stature,  well-built,  very  strong,  and 
coarse.  He  was  quick  to  see  their  superiority  to  the 
men  in  intelligence;  yet  they,  too,  looked  upon  their 
charges  as  worthless  paupers;  and  the  idea  that  these 
people,  or  most  of  them,  had  any  rights  they  were 
bound  to  respect,  never  seemed  to  enter  into  their  cal 
culations  at  all.  It  shocked  him  to  discover  that  some 
of  these  women  seemed  to  have  the  natures  of  wolves. 
When  a  woman  is  a  beast,  he  sorrowfully  concluded, 
she  sinks  to  far  fouler  bestiality  than  any  man. 

While  Harold  was  thus  fighting  for  reason  in  Allan- 
dale,  half  a  dozen  female  attendants  resigned,  at  vary 
ing  intervals.  This  he  had  been  sure  would  happen, 
for  they  had  been  of  the  honest,  humane,  sympathetic 
type,  and  had  been  unable  to  endure  the  cruel  condi 
tions  and  soul-suffocating  environment. 

In  charge  of  his  department,  after  Harold  had  been 
there  some  months,  was  placed  a  man  named  Fuller, 
who  soon  manifested  intense  antagonism  toward  him. 
Harold  had  shown  resentment  of  several  unwarranted 
familiarities,  which  had  probably  been  meant  as  over 
tures,  he  realized  afterwards,  but  which  his  rasped 
nerves  protested  against;  and,  as  often  happens  in  the 
case  of  a  petty  nature,  this  aroused  in  Fuller  a  spite- 
fulness  that  vented  itself  on  Harold  in  a  score  of 
ways. 

These  exasperations  gathered  cumulative  force  until 
one  day  Harold  seized  the  attendant,  shook  him  vio 
lently,  as  a  terrier  does  a  rat,  and  then  dropped  him 
in  a  heap  outside  the  door,  thoroughly  terrified.  From 
that  hour,  life  was  made  a  burden  to  him.  A  few 


256  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

moments  after  his  outburst  he  bitterly  regretted  it,  for 
one  of  the  warnings  frequently  given  him  by  a  friendly 
patient,  to  whom  in  his  desperate  loneliness  he  had 
told  his  life,  was  that  of  unquestioning  obedience  and 
patience. 

"If  you  keep  on  that  tack  long  enough,  they'll  pa 
role  you  some  time.  It's  the  only  chance  of  salva 
tion!"  this  friend  had  said. 

For  days  he  now  lived  in  hourly  dread  he  would  be 
sent  to  the  violent  ward,  a  fate  with  which  the  attend 
ant  frequently  threatened  him.  Sometimes,  in  these 
vicious  institutions,  the  threat  is  to  send  the  patient 
to  a  worse  place.  At  Danvers,  for  instance,  they 
threaten  a  poor  devil  with  Tewksbury,  an  Augean  in 
ferno,  if  ever  one  existed  on  earth.  Harold,  therefore, 
became  very  cautious.  Month  drifted  into  month  in 
an  endless,  hopeless  routine,  and  thought,  reason,  re 
flection  stagnated. 

Then,  suddenly,  he  was  conscious  of  a  radical  change 
in  the  manner  of  his  attendant.  Where  formerly  Ful 
ler  had  been  more  subtly  antagonistic,  he  now  became 
openly  insulting.  But  Harold  bore  it  in  silence.  How 
long  he  would  have  done  so  remains  a  question;  for 
one  evening,  after  two  weeks  of  it,  when  his  nerves 
were  strained  to  the  snapping-point,  a  crisis  came,  as 
he  stood  looking  out  of  the  window  after  supper.  The 
arching  trees,  with  the  sun  sinking  behind  them,  seemed 
like  some  dim  yet  gorgeous  temple.  At  this  very  mo 
ment  he  fancied  that  he  glimpsed  a  face  below,  vaguely 
familiar. 

So  absorbed  was  he  in  this  momentary  fancy  that 
he  did  not  hear  Fuller  enter  the  room  and  call  him. 
He  was  jerked  from  the  window  roughly,  and  told  to 
follow.  Every  drop  of  blood  in  Harold's  body  boiled; 
but  his  angry  protest  remained  unuttered  in  astonish- 


HAROLD'S  LONG  FIGHT  257 

mcnt,  for  a  servant  was  with  the  attendant,  and  was 
gathering  Harold's  belongings  together.  One  second, 
his  heart  leaped  ecstatically.  Was  he  about  to  be  re 
leased  ? 

That  wild  hope  was  smothered  the  next  moment,  as 
Fuller  laughed  with  a  sneer  that  made  him  wince. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  snarled  Fuller,  answering  his 
question.  "It  means  that  you  ain't  a  pay-patient  no 
more.  Your  backers" — grinning — "have  just  forgot 
ten  to  come  across,  that's  all.  And  you're  a  sure- 
enough  pauper,  now,  to  put  it  polite-like.  You'll  have 
more  society,  anyhow — which  you'll  enjoy.  You're 
such  a  damn  sociable  cuss,  you  know!" 

The  repulsing  of  Fuller's  overtures  was  yet  rank 
ling  overtime. 

In  the  next  interval  of  his  adjustment,  Harold 
thought  he  must  surely  be  going  insane.  How  else 
had  he  got  the  impression  that  he  had  seen  Don  on  the 
night  of  his  transfer?  It  had  been  but  the  shadowiest 
sort  of  an  impression,  but  it  had  long  persisted. 

Now  the  physical  side  of  Harold  set  up  its  revolt. 
He  found  himself  compelled  to  endure  existence  in  a 
big  ward.  Every  sense  of  privacy  was  outraged,  all 
notions  of  decency  mocked  at.  The  food  was  nauseat 
ing.  He  found  he  must  gather  every  faculty  of  his 
being  together  to  resist  the  foe  ambushed  in  some  dark 
cell  of  his  brain.  The  soul  of  him  steadied  and  braced 
him  for  a  long  time,  and  he  held  the  thing  off,  and 
believed  it  conquered. 

But  sometimes  at  night,  in  the  utter  darkness,  it 
would  still  be  there.  It  would  creep  slowly;  creep 
close;  this  thing  that  would  not  strike  and  end  his 
agony,  but  that  waited,  biding  its  time  in  the  darkness, 
until — until 

Next   ensued   a  period  when   the  machinery   of  his 


258  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

mind  seemed  rusted  and  clogged  from  long  disuse;  a 
period  when  he  refused  to  think ;  when  he  ate  and  drank 
and  slept  mechanically,  and  stared  into  space  in  the 
intervals — and  the  Foe  crept  near  as  a  hair's  breadth. 

Things  that  he  daily  saw  made  him  marvel  he  could 
see  them  and  bear  to  live ;  yet  he  lived.  There  came 
days  when  a  sinister  voice  within  him  reiterated  inces 
santly,  there  was  no  hope;  that  he,  Harold  Fitzgerald, 
was  eternally  lost  and  forgotten  in  these  hideous  stews 
of  horror.  And  all  the  time  each  physical  sense  was 
desecrated  by  the  foul  stenches  of  putrid  food,  with 
drugs  and  sweat  commingled. 

Presently  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  there  were  exhala 
tions — like  a  pestilent  mist  from  a  dank  swamp  full  of 
reptiles — from  these  disordered  minds ;  and  that  these 
exhalations  took  on  tangible,  grotesque  shapes,  as  if 
witches  had  been  let  loose  and  were  holding  a  Sabbat 
in  the  night.  Always,  too,  was  that  other  horror — 
that  shapeless,  invisible  foe  creeping  close  in  the  hell 
ish  silences  or  the  more  hellish  noises  of  the  night. 

Yet  in  the  midmost  reek  of  all  this  foulness  and 
awful  blackness  of  mind,  always  a  cool,  shadowy  hand 
was  laid  in  compassion  on  his  torment;  and  over  and 
over  again  he  was  saved  from  the  brink.  And  with  the 
gush  of  tears  the  cool  hand  brought,  he  felt  his  mother 
had  been  near  her  boy.  After  this,  the  mysterious 
reaction  would  invariably  come,  when  his  chin  would 
lift  itself,  and  his  lips  take  a  firmer  curve  and  hope 
again  resurrect  itself.  So  had  it  been  the  night  before 
the  day  when  he  had  looked  into  Don's  eyes,  on  the 
march  of  his  "gang" — and  had  known  that  help  was  at 
hand.  How  the  blood  sang  through  his  veins !  Yet 
he  steeled  his  face  into  a  glacial  vacuity,  lest  the  guard 
suspect  and  he  be  "transferred"  again. 

He  laid  him  down  to  sleep  that  night,  unknowing,  as 


HAROLD'S  LONG  FIGHT  259 

yet,  that  ineffaceable  things  had  been  traced  upon  his 
heart  and  brain,  and  that  the  mysterious  essence  of 
youth  —  that  magical  something  —  was  gone  forever 
from  his  soul. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

Tragedy 

THE  day  after  the  silent  recognition  between  Don 
and  Harold,  Barbara  found  herself  nervously 
aware  of  some  impending  trouble  in  her  ward.  The 
air  was  heavily  charged  with  it,  although  nothing  had 
been  actually  said  or  done  to  give  shape  to  her  sus 
picion.  But  the  flushed  face  of  Margaret  King,  the 
ward  manager,  and  her  air  of  particular  irritability, 
had  always  been  forerunners  of  trouble.  She  stayed 
in  the  ward  much  more  than  usual;  and  while  she  said 
nothing  in  particular  to  Mrs.  Johns,  her  pet  victim, 
she  looked  at  her  with  unusual  venom,  again  and  again, 
until  Barbara  was  forced  to  conclude  Miss  King  was 
aching  for  a  fray. 

Barbara  had  gathered  something  of  this  woman's 
vicious  history,  and  knew  she  drank.  This,  with  her 
unnatural  sexual  nature,  which  found  abnormal  grati 
fication  in  doing  physical  violence,  explained  some  of 
the  ferocity  she  put  into  the  discipline  of  her  ward. 

Hearing  that  Miss  King's  native  state  was  Cali 
fornia,  Barbara  had  told  her  that  old  Mrs.  Johns  also 
came  from  the  California  coast,  with  a  faint  hope  that 
even  the  slight  bond  of  state  nativity  might  avert  a 
little  of  the  cruelty  Miss  King  seemed  always  ready  to 
vent  on  the  sturdy  old  woman.  Barbara  and  the  ward 
manager  as  yet,  although  close  to  angry  disagreement 
several  times,  had  come  into  no  conflict,  and  Barbara 
fervently  hoped  none  might  be  precipitated. 

260 


TRAGEDY  261 

She  noted  that  Miss  King,  when  next  in  the  ward, 
was  looking  at  the  old  crone  with  keen  animosity. 

"How  are  you  feeling  today?"  she  finally  asked 
the  aged  woman.  "All  right?" 

Unfortunately  Mrs.  Johns  had  been  in  a  despondent, 
irritable  mood,  and  she  sullenly  failed  to  respond. 
This  clearly  incited  Miss  King  to  secret  fury,  and  it 
now  looked  to  Barbara  as  if  the  tyrant  were  only 
waiting  opportunity  to  expend  her  rage. 

The  opportunity  came,  next  day.  It  was  near  the 
supper  hour,  and  an  attendant  was  preparing  the  table. 
Around  the  ward  was  evidence  of  some  little  cheerful 
ness,  the  cheerfulness  that  associates  itself  the  world 
over  with  the  preparation  of  a  meal.  The  afternoon 
sunshine  through  the  barred  windows  was  making  fan 
tastic  patterns  on  the  floor.  One  poor  creature  was 
carefully  measuring  the  bars  of  sunlight  with  her  shoe, 
and  then  making  rapid  figures  with  her  fingers  in  the 
air,  like  a  game  of  golden  numbers. 

Fragrance  drifted  through  the  open  windows.  There 
was  a  cheerful  rattle  of  tin  cups  at  the  table.  Miss 
King  abruptly  entered  the  ward.  Barbara  felt  the  in 
stant  damper  laid  on  every  patient,  for  the  cheerful 
noises  and  the  talk  subsided. 

Mrs.  Johns  was  holding  a  glass  of  water  to  her  lips. 
What  Miss  King's  errand  into  the  ward  was,  no  one 
ever  was  to  know,  but  she  approached  Mrs.  Johns  as 
if  having  business  with  her.  The  nurse's  cheeks  were 
flushed  and  her  eyes  glittered.  Obviously  she  had  been 
drinking. 

Mrs.  Johns  nervously  lowered  the  glass  as  the  nurse 
approached,  and  then,  as  ill  luck  would  have  it,  out  of 
her  hand  it  slipped  and  fell  at  Miss  King's  feet.  The 
water  spilled  on  her  shoes  and  the  glass  broke  into  a 
thousand  pieces.  Instantly  seven  devils  were  let  loose. 


262  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

Miss  King  grabbed  the  old  woman  by  the  hair  and 
almost  lifted  her  from  her  feet.  For  a  moment  Mrs. 
Johns  hung  back,  less  aggressive  than  usual;  then 
gathered  herself  eagerly,  and  both  gave  battle  without 
fear  of  hurt  or  pain. 

To  every  trembling,  fascinated  spectator  in  the 
room,  it  looked  like  a  fight  between  two  wild  beasts. 
Each  writhed  and  strained  to  reach  the  other's  throat. 
They  snarled,  scratched,  twisted  and  bit;  and  twice 
they  fell  upon  each  other  on  the  slippery  floor,  first 
one  on  top,  then  the  other.  They  rushed  at  each  other, 
pushing  and  slamming  against  tables  and  chairs.  Bar 
bara,  unable  to  endure  the  dreadful  sight  and  fearing 
the  result,  ran  swiftly  through  the  door  into  the  corri 
dor  and  called  through  the  speaking-tube,  for  help. 

The  struggle  went  on.  The  old  woman  found  her 
self  weakening,  her  feet  slipping.  She  made  a  frantic 
clutch  at  Miss  King's  throat,  missed,  and  caught  the 
woman's  shirtwaist,  holding  on  with  mad  strength. 
The  waist  ripped,  and  came  away  in  her  hands,  bring 
ing  the  shift  of  gauze  with  it,  and  laying  bare  the 
nurse's  breasts.  Mrs.  Johns'  eyes  blazed  as  they 
rested  on  a  crimson  and  palpitating  birthmark;  and 
on  the  instant  a  note  in  her  scream  revealed  that  her 
reason,  for  a  moment  at  least,  had  returned: 

"Margaret — my  Margaret !" 

Miss  King  released  her  hold  and  stared  panting  at 
the  dishevelled,  frightful,  lacerated  woman  before  her, 
in  whose  eyes,  nevertheless,  the  light  of  reason  shone. 
Apparently  the  old  woman  was  trying  to  bare  her  own 
bosom.  She  stretched  her  arms,  tottered,  and  her 
cheeks  grew  chalky;  then  she  fell  heavily  to  the  floor. 

For  a  second  Margaret  King  stood  mute,  staring  at 
the  body  on  the  floor.  Then  she  stooped,  panting, 
and  tore  open  the  cheap  waist  of  the  dead  woman. 


TRAGEDY  263 

She  saw  a  crimson  mark  on  the  sunken  breast,  match 
ing  exactly  that  on  her  own  bosom. 

With  a  shriek  that  penetrated  to  every  corner  of 
that  wing,  she  screamed:  "Oh  Christ,  oh  Christ — I've 
murdered  my  mother!" 

Without  pause  or  hesitation  she  sprang  forward 
toward  the  dining-table  where  the  attendant,  cutting 
bread,  still  sat  transfixed  by  the  horrible  spectacle. 
Snatching  the  bread-knife,  she  plunged  it  to  the  hilt 
into  her  neck.  She  coughed  once  or  twice.  A  gush 
of  blood  spattered  everyone  within  a  dozen  feet  of 
her.  Turning,  she  reeled  toward  her  mother  and  fell 
dead,  across  her  body,  just  as  Barbara,  with  two  or 
derlies  and  an  assistant,  burst  into  the  ward. 

Now,  to  crush  out  the  life  of  an  insane  person  is 
common  enough  in  asylums,  and  nurses  and  attendants 
are  loath  to  report  it.  In  the  large  institutions  it  is 
of  alarmingly  frequent  occurrence.  But  at  Allandale 
this  double  tragedy  was  out  of  the  usual  order.  Some 
other  explanation  than  "patients  fighting  among 
themselves"  would  be  necessary  to  meet  inquiry. 

Word  of  the  tragedy  soon  reached  the  administra 
tion  office,  and  Dr.  Wilson,  followed  by  physicians, 
orderlies  and  deputies,  was  on  the  spot  inside  of  a 
very  few  minutes. 

The  ward  was  in  an  uproar.  Hell  had  broken  loose. 
Patients  were  cursing,  laughing,  sobbing,  shrieking. 
Some  were  singing  obscene  songs,  and  some  lifting 
hymns.  Others  were  running  madly  round  and  round. 
A  few  were  spinning  themselves  like  tops  and  hum 
ming.  With  difficulty  the  Superintendent  brought 
them  to  silence,  and  as  soon  as  he  had  restored  order, 
called  Barbara  and  several  other  witnesses  to  the  of 
fice.  The  young  assistants  and  the  orderlies  lifted  the 
bodies  and  deposited  them  upon  wheel  tables,  pending 


264  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

their  removal  to  the  morgue. 

Barbara  was  greatly  moved,  but  she  gave  a  graphic 
story  of  Miss  King's  antagonism  and  cruelty  to  Mrs. 
Johns  from  the  time  of  the  former's  installation  as 
ward-manager,  to  the  moment  that  she,  Barbara,  had 
run  for  help.  She  had  not  seen  the  actual  deaths ;  or 
even  suspected  the  ghastly  relationship,  till  her  arrival 
with  the  orderlies. 

The  attendant  who  had  been  preparing  the  evening 
meal  next  gave  her  account  of  the  tragedy,  and  several 
others  testified,  all  descriptions  varying  somewhat,  of 
course,  but  mainly  cohering.  Dr.  Wilson  looked  not 
only  horror-stricken  but  confounded.  Tales  of  inhu 
manity  had  been  brought  to  his  attention  time  and 
again  by  nurses  and  by  patients,  and  by  complaints  of 
kindred  or  friends  of  the  latter.  But  he  had  become 
indifferent.  The  patients  were  dead  to  the  world  any 
way.  Why  should  he  worry  about  a  few  hundred  help 
less,  demented  creatures,  the  majority  of  whom  were 
without  kin,  friends  or  influence?  Even  suicide,  which 
had  been  frequent,  he  had  always  managed  to  hush  up. 
But  he  uneasily  reflected  that  there  had  been  too  many 
eye-witnesses  to  this  episode.  Could  they  all  be  si 
lenced  ? 

After  a  rigid  examination  of  the  four  whose  testi 
mony  could  be  considered  reliable,  he  begged  of  them, 
for  his  own  sake  and  that  of  the  institution,  to  refrain 
from  whispering  even  a  word  of  the  affair.  He  hinted 
at  shorter  hours,  an  advance  in  salary  and  a  special 
letter  of  recommendation  with  each  diploma ;  then  dis 
missed  them  with  an  assured  good-night,  satisfied  that 
no  inquest  would  be  necessary. 

Later  Barbara  was  to  learn  that  the  old  woman's 
pass  to  Potter's  Field  had  been  signed  "heart-failure" 
and  the  daughter's  death  accounted  for  by  "internal 


TRAGEDY  265 

hemorrhage."  The  mother  was  buried  at  the  expense 
of  the  state.  A  white  pine  box,  with  an  express-wagon 
for  a  hearse,  sufficed.  She  was  buried  without  prayer. 

The  funeral  services  of  the  nurse  were  held  in  Allan- 
dale  chapel.  A  floral  wreath  from  the  doctors  lay 
upon  the  closed  casket,  and  two  carriages  followed  the 
body  to  its  lonely  grave  in  Mount  Auburn.  The  treas 
ury  of  the  Asylum  was  ordered  to  pay  all  expenses, 
and  charge  them  up  to  the  Commonwealth. 

Thus  the  grave  finally  hid  another  tragedy  of  Allan- 
dale — one  more,  of  God  knows  how  many  in  that  place 
of  unspeakable  horrors. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

The  Battle  of  the  Bathroom 

THE  thing  Harold  had  dreaded  so  long  and  which, 
had  it  happened  a  month  before,  would  surely 
have  unhinged  his  reason,  had  come  to  pass — he  found 
himself  committed  to  the  violent  ward,  and  knew  that 
ere  long  he  was  to  be  immured  with  raving  maniacs. 
But  though  he  looked,  for  a  brief  space,  down  deep 
into  the  black  gulf  of  despair,  hope  speedily  lifted  him 
out  again.  Friends  knew  now  that  he  was  here;  his 
deliverance  would  be  only  a  matter  of  time.  He  must 
"possess  his  soul  in  patience" ;  for  he  knew  not  what 
difficulties  must  be  overcome  or  what  obstacles  there 
were  to  hinder  Don.  By  this  time  Harold  had  come 
to  know  something  of  the  wheels  within  wheels  that 
must  be  turned  before  the  doors  of  Allandale  should 
give  up  the  quick  who  are  dead. 

That  very  reaction  from  settled  melancholy  to  radi 
ant  hope  which  Don's  recognition  of  him  had  wrought, 
brought  about  Harold's  transference  to  that  Gehenna 
of  horrors — the  violent  ward.  In  the  first  place,  the 
dogged  patience,  the  unfaltering  belief  in  himself 
which  had  made  him  refuse  to  admit  that  discourage 
ment  or  defeat  were  actualities  during  those  years  he 
hung  over  his  invention,  were  no  longer  his  to  com 
mand  at  will.  They  had  vanished  with  that  subtle 
essence  of  youth  which  Allandale  had  filched  from  him, 
forever.  Now  a  thousand  doubts  harassed  him;  a 
thousand  suspicions  tormented. 

266 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BATHROOM  267 

Not  at  first,  however.  For  a  week  he  waited  hope 
fully,  expectantly.  The  second  week  his  heart  sank 
a  little;  he  had  been  vouchsafed  neither  sight  of  Don 
nor  word  from  him.  And  when  the  third  week  was 
nearly  at  an  end,  with  still  no  word  or  sign,  he  began 
to  think  the  brief  encounter  on  the  walk  that  day 
might  be  a  fever,  after  all,  a  madman's  phantasy;  and 
the  old  horror  again  surged  over  him  that  he  was,  in 
truth,  losing  his  senses.  So  he  had  to  fight  the  fearful 
battle  all  over  again.  The  buoyancy  of  the  first  week 
had  left  him,  as  a  toy  balloon  goes  flat.  He  became 
acutely  conscious  of  the  revolting  conditions  around 
him ;  the  change  from  the  "paid  quarters"  to  a  general 
ward  was  very  marked,  and  all  these  things  told  on  his 
physical  vitality.  His  nerves  took  on  a  keen  edge,  and 
in  the  beginning  of  the  third  week  he  rebelled,  by  re 
fusing  to  eat  a  nasty-looking  bowl  of  soup.  The  soup 
at  these  institutions  is  frequently  made,  not  by  a  de 
cent,  sane  cook,  but  by  half-witted  patients  working  in 
the  kitchen.  Buttons,  pieces  of  combs,  bits  of  bar 
soap  and  roaches  are  often  thrown  in  as  fancy  flavor 
ings  to  the  putrid  meat. 

Harold's  daintiness  in  refusing  the  foul  mess  en 
raged  the  attendant,  and  he  reproved  the  "God  damned 
pauper"  in  terms  even  grosser  than  the  soup,  but  Har 
old  had  sense  enough  to  keep  still.  He  had  learned,  at 
bitter  cost,  that  silence  and  submissions  are  the  only 
possible  means  with  which  to  win  such  indulgence  as 
one  may  hope  to  get  in  Bastiles  like  Allandale.  But 
that  petty  malice  and  vigilant  vindictiveness  which 
seemed  to  animate  the  average  attendant  in  asylums, 
had  been  aroused  in  the  ward  nurse,  and  the  next  two 
days  grew  absolutely  unbearable. 

On  Thursday  an  outrage  occurred  in  his  presence, 
so  horrible  as  to  be  unprintable.  Every  instinct  in 


268  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

Harold  rose  into  open,  fierce  rebellion,  and  without 
thought  of  himself  or  fear  of  consequences  he  inter 
fered,  protesting  vehemently  and  threatening  to  report 
the  filthy  infamy.  Calling  him  the  vilest  names  in  the 
dictionary  of  blackguarding,  the  attendant  struck  him 
heavily  athwart  the  jaw.  He  struck  back,  and  in  a 
moment  Wf  s  punching  the  tyrant  for  the  joy  of  the 
thing — the  primitive  lust  of  battle.  Another  attend 
ant  intervened,  while  the  status  was  about  even;  and 
the  pair  of  them  subdued  him. 

For  the  rest  of  the  day  and  all  of  Friday,  an  omi 
nous  hush  pervaded  the  ward.  The  attendant  was 
painfully  polite  to  Harold;  and  not  till  Saturday 
morning,  when  he  came  on  duty,  did  his  manner  change. 
Harold's  heart  sank  heavily.  He  knew  what  was  about 
to  happen.  At  Saturday  noon  two  attendants,  a 
strait-jacket  suggestively  dangled  by  one,  motioned 
him  out  of  the  ward. 

In  frightful  agony  lest  it  be  clapped  on  him,  he 
followed,  mute  and  helpless.  His  formal  transference 
to  Ward  B,  where  the  most  violent  of  all  were  kept, 
was  duly  made.  The  first  person  he  looked  on,  when 
he  entered  this  Inferno,  was  Don. 

Don  was  talking  to  the  Protestant  clergyman — it 
was  the  day  the  latter  "comedian"  made  his  weekly 
visit.  The  dominie  was  asking  a  question  about  one 
of  the  patients  who  had  actually  appeared  to  excite 
his  interest,  but  at  sight  of  a  new  patient  Don  stepped 
forward  and  his  eyes  met  Harold's.  In  spite  of  him 
self,  horror  leaped  to  his  face;  then  he  instantly  re 
gained  self-possession,  and,  for  the  second  time,  shot 
a  warning  into  his  friend's  eyes.  He  drew  a  breath 
of  relief  when  Harold's  impassivity  of  look  showed 
that  he  understood. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Don  snatched  a  moment  when 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BATHROOM     269 

the  ward  was  clear  of  other  attendants  and  of  the 
clergyman  and  Spear,  the  deputy,  to  speak  to  Harold, 
the  first  word  uttered  between  them,  since  they  had 
parted  outside  the  Art  Studio  ten  months  before. 

"Courage — just  a  few  days  longer,  Hal!"  he  said 
guardedly.  "I  mustn't  be  seen  talking  to  you  more 
than  half  a  minute." 

At  the  short,  familiar  "Hal"  on  Don's  lips,  and  the 
sweet  sound  of  the  only  voice  he  knew  now  was  the 
voice  of  a  real  friend,  Harold's  composure  nearly  de 
serted  him.  He  wanted  nothing  in  the  world  so  much 
as  to  lay  his  aching  head  on  Don's  broad  shoulder  and 
sob  his  heart  out.  His  fine  features  were  distorted  by 
the  effort  to  restrain  the  dammed-up  torrents  of  feel 
ing  that  struggled  to  run  free  at  last.  But  in  a  mo 
ment  he  had  choked  back  the  sob  in  his  throat  once 
more  and  was  Captain  of  his  Soul. 

"How  did  you — know — I  was  here?"  He  spoke  in 
a  very  low  tone. 

"I  didn't  know,"  answered  Don,  glancing  around  the 
madhouse  room,  a  Bedlam  of  stench,  shrieks  and  hor 
ror.  "I  only  found  it  out  after  I  came  here.  Sup 
posed  you  were  in  Europe — that's  what  Jackberry 
told  me " 

Harold's  eyes  blazed. 

"I'm  here  for  Dr.  Clark,"  Don  continued,  hur 
riedly,  "investigating  Allandale.  Thank  God  I  came ! 
I've  been  here  nearly  seven  weeks — intended  to  be  only 
a  month.  I've  done  my  best  to  get  word  to  you,  but  it 
was  no  go,  and  I've  worried  my  head  off.  The  climax 
we've  been  waiting  for  is  in  the  air ;  it  may  happen  any 
minute.  When  the  explosion  comes,  you'll  walk  out 
with  the  rest.  Keep  still — there's  Spear!  He's  a 
fiend !" 

Don  was  bustled  off,  as  the  hatchet-faced  deputy 


270  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

came  along  and  arrested  him  with  a  question: 

"How's  Morrill?" 

Don  glanced  over  at  the  stertorous  patient  in  ques 
tion,  a  new  inmate. 

"He's  slept  nearly  eleven  hours,"  he  answered 
briefly. 

Spears  grinned. 

"Had  his  bath  yet?" 

Don  held  himself  in. 

"Of  course  not;  he  was  brought  in  close  to  midnight 
in  an  auto — on  the  verge  of  jim-jams.  To  tell  the 
truth,  Mr.  Spear,  he's  a  subject  for  the  hospital;  he 
doesn't  belong  here  at  all.  When  he  wakes  up,  he'll  be 
as  sane  as  anybody." 

Spear  malignly  scowled,  his  thin  lips  compressing 
themselves  into  a  cruel  line. 

"Well,  if  he  isn't  sane  we  will  bring  him  to  his  wits 
quick  enough !"  he  snarled.  "We  don't  want  any  bug 
house  oratory  around  here,  not  when  it  ain't  necessary 
— see?  Was  he  doped?" 

Don  gave  a  curt  nod. 

"Goddard  was  on  duty.  You  may  be  sure  Morrill 
got  his  hypodermic  all  right!" 

Spear,  with  a  grin  of  devilish  affability,  next  in 
quired  : 

"How's  Hicks  been  behaving  lately?" 

"Hicks  is  doing  fine!"  said  Don,  warmly. 

This  clearly  did  not  fill  Spear's  heart  with  ecstasy, 
but  he  said  nothing.  When  he  had  taken  his  hateful 
presence  out  of  the  ward,  Don  walked  over  to  take  a 
fresh  look  at  Morrill,  and  make  a  study  of  the  man. 

Morrill  was  about  the  same  build  as  Hicks,  but,  in 
spite  of  the  marks  of  dissipation  upon  him,  of  a  higher 
type  of  mentality.  Something  about  him  bespoke 
culture  and  refinement.  He  had  been,  to  all  appear- 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BATHROOM  271 

ances,  violently  insane  the  night  before,  Goddard  had 
told  Don.  Whiskey  had  been  back  of  it,  of  course. 
Morrill  had  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  refusing  to  lie 
down,  for  hours.  First  he  had  raved  in  an  agony  of 
fear.  Then  he  had  had  a  lucid  interval  or  two,  and 
called  beseechingly  for  a  doctor.  Hicks  had  tried  to 
soothe  him,  for  the  drugs  they  had  injected  into  Mor 
rill  during  the  night  had,  of  course,  aggravated  the 
frightful  condition  of  his  brain  and  nerves.  He  had 
passed  through  that  period  of  drunkenness,  when  al 
cohol  or  drugs,  unless  pushed  to  a  dangerous  point, 
have  no  effect.  His  stomach  was  crying  for  nourish 
ment  and  his  mind  needed  rest;  his  body  a  soothing, 
relaxing  massage. 

Toward  morning,  Goddard  had  cursed  him  roundly 
and  told  him  to  shut  up  or  be  gagged.  Almost  in 
stantly,  to  the  surprise  of  that  worthy  husky  and  of 
every  tormented  patient  in  the  ward,  Morrill  suddenly 
had  become  oblivious  of  everything,  and  lying  down, 
had  fallen  into  a  profound  slumber  which  had  lasted 
eleven  hours. 

Now,  even  as  Don  approached,  Morrill  awoke.  His 
mind  seemed  clear,  his  eyes  were  rational  and  his  mus 
cles  under  perfect  control. 

"I'm  hungry  as  a  wolf!"  he  growled,  sitting  up  in 
bed.  His  first  words  had  voiced  the  need  of  a  famished 
body. 

Presently,  when  Don  had  gone  to  order  some  food 
for  him,  Morrill  looked  about  him,  bewildered,  his  mind 
beginning  to  take  notes  on  himself.  His  environment 
and  the  patients  puzzled  him.  Seeing  that  Hicks  had 
a  friendly  eye,  he  beckoned. 

"In  the  name  of  the  living  Christ,  where  am  I?  In 
the  bug-house?" 

Hicks  nodded. 


A  THOUSAND  FACES 


"My  God!     Have  I  come  to  this?" 

Merrill's  tone  was  full  of  unspeakable  horror. 
Hicks  essayed  comfort,  but  for  five  minutes  the  man 
sat  silent  and  ashen-faced.  Presently  he  asked: 
"What  asylum?" 

"Allandale,  in  Winchester,"   answered  Hicks. 

"My  own  town!  I  must  have  been  in  a  bad  way 
for  my  relatives  to  consent  to  my  being  admitted  to 
this  place.  You  appear  sane.  How  long  have  you 
been  here?" 

"Three  months." 

"What?     Three  months  in  this  Hell-hole?" 

"No.  Only  one  month  in  this  violent  ward,  but 
it  seems  a  life-time." 

"But  you're  not  insane  !"  Morrill's  tone  was  won 
dering. 

"No.  I  shall  prove  it  when  the  time  comes.  I've 
got  word  to  my  sister,  or  tried  to.  I  expect  to  get 
out  of  here  soon." 

"Suppose  you  don't?" 

"I'm  damned  sure  I'll  get  out!"  cried  Hicks. 

"Are  you  a  boozer?" 

Morrill  awaited  the  answer  with  a  certain  eagerness. 

"Not  to  any  extent.     Are  you?" 

"Yes,  and  no.  I  belong  to  that  class  of  drunkards 
who  booze,  not  because  they  like  the  infernal  stuff, 
but  because  they  must." 

"Oh,  come,  now,"  protested  Hicks,  "do  you  mean 
to  say  that  a  man  must  drink  and  can't  possibly  re 
sist?" 

"Yes,  I  do.     Do  you  know  what  a  dipsomaniac  is?" 

"Yes.     A  hard  drinker.     Isn't  that  it?" 

An  expression  of  sadness,  bitterness  and  unutter 
able  melancholy  stole  over  Morrill's  face. 

"Yes,   it's  to  drink  and  get   drunk;  and  to  drink 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BATHROOM  273 

and  keep  drunk  till  you  sink  below  the  level  of  a 
beast.  God  forbid  that  you  should  ever  be  so  ac 
cursed  !  It  may  be  that  only  a  few  minutes  before 
the  thing  happens,  you  appear  to  be  in  an  ideal  physi 
cal,  mental  and  moral  condition.  You  may  be  pros 
perous,  content,  happy,  buoyant.  Then,  without 
warning,  the  craving  for  alcohol  comes  over  you,  and 
you  have  no  soul  —  only  a  thirst-maddened  body. 


"Shut  up,  over  there,  you  !"  —  suddenly  roared 
Fales,  the  supervising  day-attendant,  "or  I'll  make 
you  !"  They  had  not  seen  him  enter. 

"Oh,  is  that  so?"  Merrill's  tone  was  easy  and 
assured.  He  sat  up  on  the  bed  and  laughed  at  the 
attendant.  "Now,  if  you're  looking  for  trouble,  you 
know,  why,  come  right  over  here  !  I'd  like  to  work 
off  some  surplus  energy  on  a  cur  like  you  !" 

Fales  rushed  to  the  bed,  as  if  he  would  annihilate 
his  new  charge,  and  Morrill  sprang  to  his  feet.  At 
that  the  attendant  recoiled  instinctively,  for  Morrill 
looked  formidable.  Cowardice,  fear,  hate,  showed  it 
self  in  the  attendant's  face.  He  slunk  away,  mutter 
ing  something  about  getting  him  ready  for  his  bath, 
and  left  the  ward.  Hicks  knew  how  to  interpret  that. 

"I'm  afraid,  Morrill,"  he  said  anxiously,  "you'll  get 
what  they've  been  itching  to  give  me  for  some  days 
past,  and  haven't  yet  found  an  excuse  for.  They  never 
work  overtime  here,  or  you'd  have  been  soused  in  the 
bath-tub  last  night.  Take  my  advice,  and  get  into 
that  tub,  no  matter  how  dirty  it  looks.  You  say  that 
you  can  get  out  of  here  as  soon  as  your  folks  hear 
you're  in  your  right  senses  again.  These  beggars 
won't  believe  you  here  ;  so  don't  give  them  a  chance 
to  pitch  into  you.  Submit,  Morrill  —  they're  too  many 
for  you.  I  put  up  a  fight,  and  they  sent  me  to  bed 


£74  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

for  two  weeks !" 

While  they  were  still  talking,  Spear  came  in  and 
called  Don,  giving  him  instructions. 

"You'll  see  now  how  we  handle  unruly  paupers  at 
Allandale,"  he  said,  grinning.  "Hicks  has  been  lamb 
like,  so  we've  postponed  going  after  him.  The  cuss 
must  be  going  to  pass  in  his  checks.  He  was  an  unruly 
devil,  at  first.  But  this  Morrill  will  be  as  good  an 
object-lesson  as  Hicks.  It'll  be  right  after  supper. 
Where  do  you  hang  out  in  the  evening?" 

"I'll  be  on  the  grounds,  near  the  south  gate.  Don't 
fail  to  send  for  me." 

"Oh,  we  won't  need  none  o'  your  help,  you  know. 
You're  to  keep  your  hands  off.  Fales  and  Whitman 
are  dandy  scrappers,  and  I'm  no  slouch  myself.  Mor 
rill  is  a  hard  boozer.  They  don't  last  long  in  a  scrap ; 
their  wind  gives  out  and  then  it's  easy !" 

"He   may  have   friends — relatives — 

Spear  grunted  derisively. 

"He  was  picked  up  on  the  streets.  That  kind  ain't 
got  no  friends  who  care.  I  don't  know  who  com 
mitted  him — and  I  don't  give  a  damn !" 

"He  looks  as  if  he  could  fight."  Don's  tone  was 
purposely  dubious. 

"Fight  nothing! — we'll  have  him  to  the  bad  in  ten 
minutes.  You  keep  away  from  him ;  and  say,  don't 
know  too  much.  Tomorrow  the  doctor  will  ask  what 
makes  his  mug  so  pretty.  I'll  attend  to  that,  all 
right." 

All  during  the  rest  of  that  interminable  afternoon, 
Don  visualized  the  picture  of  three  attendants  maul 
ing  a  naked  man  in  a  bathroom.  This  would  be  all  the 
necessary  evidence  required.  He  had  gone  into  Bos 
ton  just  once  in  the  time  he  had  been  in  Allandale; 
and  that  had  been  immediately  after  his  meeting  Har- 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BATHROOM  275 

old   on  the  walk. 

Dr.  George  had  listened  in  keenest  interest,  but  had 
said  at  once  that  no  decisive  step  could  be  taken,  until 
Don  had  obtained  more  damning  evidence  against  the 
institution.  The  suicide  of  Eloise  was  nothing  ac 
tually  incriminating  against  Allandale.  Patients  fre 
quently  took  their  oAvn  lives.  The  death  and  suicide 
of  Mrs.  Johns  and  Margaret  King  could  be  glossed 
over.  Harold's  release  would  be  a  matter  of  several 
weeks'  delay,  since  indisputable  evidence  must  be  pro 
duced  that  he  had  been  shut  up  in  a  mad-house  by  a 
band  of  conspirators  who  hoped  to  profit  through  an 
invention  of  his. 

The  men  who  had  turned  this  trick  were  undoubtedly 
diabolically  clever.  They  had  more  than  probably 
covered  their  tracks  well.  Don  must  hang  on  a 
while  longer;  his  opportunity  would  come.  So  said 
the  Doctor,  then  equipped  Don  with  a  pocket  kodak 
and  sent  one  to  Barbara,  with  instructions  to  get  a 
picture  of  any  assault  that  took  place — and  to  hazard 
much  in  order  to  get  such  pictures.  Meantime  he, 
Dr.  George,  would  take,  through  an  honest  lawyer, 
steps  toward  the  release  of  Harold. 

Don  had  noted,  at  this  interview,  that  Dr.  George 
himself  was  looking  somewhat  harassed  and  worn;  and 
when  he  had  ventured  very  respectfully  to  ask  the 
cause,  Clark  had  told  him  briefly  that  his  activity 
in  connection  with  recent  exposures,  which  had  been 
made  of  Massachusetts  prison  conditions,  had  brought 
venom  upon  him  from  high  quarters,  and  that  he  was 
being  made  to  pay  for  his  probings ;  that  pressure 
was  being  brought  to  bear  upon  him  in  a  hundred 
unexpected  ways,  and  that  even  the  secret  influence 
of  a  great  church  had  been  invoked  against  him  to 
ruin  his  practice. 


276  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

But  Dr.  George  had  closed  with  a  bright  smile :  "The 
damned  knaves,  humbugs,  hypocrites  are  fools ;  they 
don't  know  me,  Don,  my  son.  I've  only  begun  to 
fight!"  said  he. 

As  the  supper-hour  approached,  Don  reviewed  the 
situation  rapidly.  If  the  assault  did  take  place,  a 
picture  of  it  and  his  own  and  Hicks'  testimony  would 
be  sufficient  corroboration.  Hicks  told  a  straight 
story.  Moreover,  he  was  complaining  of  his  side,  and 
the  symptoms  indicated  a  broken  rib  or  two.  An  X- 
ray  examination  would  undoubtedly  disclose  fractured 
ribs.  He  had  entered  the  hospital  with  a  mastoid  ab 
scess  and  would  receive  his  discharge  with  marks  of 
bodily  injuries.  The  Asylum  officials  might  be  able  to 
explain  these  away  glibly.  Yet,  in  days  gone  by,  an 
ugly  cloud  had  hung  over  this  institution;  and  it  was 
only  a  question  of  time  before  the  usual  star-chamber 
investigations  must  give  way  to  a  rigid  public  scru 
tiny  of  this  Hell  in  all  its  methods,  from  the  system 
of  commitments  to  the  diabolical  condition  of  its 
violent-wards  and  the  foulness  of  its  kitchen.  Don 
felt  a  conviction  that  tonight's  work  would  prove  the 
climax  which  would  swing  wide  open  the  doors  of  Al- 
landale  for  Harold,  for  Hicks,  for  Barbara  and  others. 
Poor  Eloise  had  opened  the  doors  for  herself. 

Hicks  was  nervous  and  apprehensive,  when  Don  went 
off  duty  at  six  o'clock.  The  latter  had  spoken  a  few 
cautious  words  to  Harold  before  leaving: 

"Keep  your  eyes  open,  old  man.  There'll  be  some 
thing  doing  tonight,  sure  as  guns ;  and  tomorrow  may 
mean  release!" 

He  had  gone  swiftly.  Hicks  was  hanging  around 
MorrilPs  bed. 

"I'll  not  go  into  the  damned  bath !"  declared  Mor- 
rill. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BATHROOM  277 

"Oh,  yes,  you  will,"  nervously  said  Hicks. 

"You  don't   know  me!"     MorrilPs   face  was  grim. 

"Then  insist  in  keeping  your  pants  and  shoes  on," 
advised  Hicks.  "I'll  give  you  my  belt  to  hold  them 
up." 

"That  day-nurse  doesn't  look  like  a  bad  fellow?" 
said  Morrill  tentatively. 

"Oh,  Brush?     He's  all  right!"  Hicks  assured  him. 

"Still,  if  they  send  for  him,"  Morrill  went  on,  "he'll 
pitch  in  with  them,  and  he  looks  as  if  he  could  do 
some  pretty  good  work,  himself.  I'd  like  to  know 
just  what  I'll  be  up  against. 

"Oh,  Spear  and  Fales  won't  need  to  call  on  him. 
Even  if  they  do,  he'll  probably  join  in  a  half-hearted 
way  for  the  sake  of  appearances " 

"Well,  I  haven't  much  to  live  for  anyway;  but,  if 
I  go  to  the  morgue,  somebody  will  go  with  me,  and 
the  others  will  need  a  surgeon!"  Morrill  growled  de 
risively. 

At  seven  o'clock,  the  alternate  night-nurse — God- 
dard  was  not  on  duty  tonight — approached  the  bed. 
Merrill's  eyes  were  closed.  He  was  pretending  sleep. 
The  attendant  shook  him  and  told  him  he  hadn't  had  a 
bath,  and  that  it  was  against  the  rules  of  the  insti 
tution  to  put  a  patient  to  bed  without  one,  if  he  was 
well  enough  to  be  dressed. 

"Hurry  up,  the  water's  ready!"  he  jerked  at  Mor 
rill  impatiently. 

"All  right.    I'll  be  in  my  pants  and  shoes  in  a  jiffy." 

"You  don't  need  those.  Here  are  some  shoes,  and 
the  bathroom  is  near." 

"Who's  going  to  take  this  bath — you  or  I?" 

Morrill  looked  ferocious,  and  the  attendant's  impa 
tience  subdued  itself.  Morrill  slipped  on  his  trousers, 
pushed  his  nightshirt  inside,  gave  the  belt  an  extra 


278  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

pull  and  tightened  his  shoe-lacings  to  the  limit.  Then 
he  followed  his  attendant  to  the  bathroom.  In  it, 
Spear,  Fales  and  Goddard  were  eagerly  waiting,  lust 
ing  for  battle.  Don  was  there  also.  Morrill  gazed 
at  them  in  pretended  astonishment.  The  ward  nurse 
left  the  room,  closing  the  door.  The  victim  looked 
into  the  tub,  then  turned  to  the  others  with  a  smile. 

"Do  you  really  expect  me  to  get  into  that  cess 
pool?"  demanded  he.  "Moreover,  I'm  not  in  the  habit 
of  undressing  in  the  presence  of  strangers !" 

A  chorus  of  guffaws  greeted  this.  Then,  with  an 
oath,  Fales  cried:  "Take  off  those  clothes  and  get 
into  that  tub,  and  be  damned  quick  about  it,  too, 
you !" 

Morrill  pulled  off  his  nightshirt  and  again  tight 
ened  his  belt;  then  stood  with  folded  arms  and  head 
thrown  back.  "Suppose  I  don't?"  he  asked. 

The  contempt  in  his  voice  and  the  defiance  in  his 
eyes  took  them  by  surprise.  Instinctively  they  re 
treated  a  little.  This  gave  Morrill  a  chance  to  get 
his  back  to  the  wall.  He  knew  his  adversaries  for 
the  cowards  they  were  now,  and  it  gave  him  confidence. 
With  the  exception  of  Brush,  the  three  trained  nurses 
looked  like  treacherous  panthers  ready  to  spring — to 
strangle,  claw  and  crush  into  insensibility  their  over 
matched  charge.  As  he  shot  a  swift  glance  from  face 
to  face,  Morrill  thought  he  caught  a  friendly  look 
in  the  eyes  of  Brush.  The  eyes  of  the  others  looked 
black  and  snapping,  wide  open,  hungry  with  a  wolfish 
lust  for  combat. 

"And  so  it  takes  four  of  you  to  give  me  a  bath?" 
he  taunted.  "You  scum  of  the  backwoods  of  Canada 
— takes  four  Canucks  to  bathe  one  Yank!  I'll  see  you 
in  Hell  and  damned,  before  I'll  get  into  that  pest 
hole,  though  it's  clean  enough  for  your  dirty  hides. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BATHROOM  279 

God  knows!" 

He  looked  into  each  face  with  a  calm,  inviting  de 
fiance  that  showed  the  three  attendants  they  had  no 
ordinary  man  to  deal  with.  A  fight  to  the  finish  was 
obviously  on  their  hands.  Again  Morrill  noted  a  look 
of  kindliness  and  sympathy  in  the  face  of  Brush.  It 
puzzled  him. 

"I'm  ready,"  he  said  coolly.  "And  I'm  quite  aware 
that  you  brought  me  in  here  to  do  me  up.  Come  on, 
you !" 

The  three  nurses  crouched  within  striking  distance, 
like  wild  beasts.  Their  plan  was  to  spring  on  him 
simultaneously,  with  blows  on  face,  neck  and  solar- 
plexus,  and  then  throw  him  into  the  tub.  A  sign  from 
Spear,  and  the  triple  attack  was  on. 

Cooler,  quicker,  more  alert  and  with  equal  velocity, 
Merrill's  right  smashed  Goddard  below  the  heart.  He 
fell  into  the  arms  of  Brush,  his  face  twisted  in  an 
guish.  Spear's  long  left  caught  his  victim  on  the 
shoulder,  but  the  blow  glanced,  losing  much  of  its 
force. 

Now,  as  Fales'  enormous  fist  drove  home  on  Mor- 
rill's  upper  ribs,  he  held  his  breath.  The  concussion 
would  have  been  terrible,  had  he  not  been  about  a  foot 
from  the  wall.  Goddard  had  now  recovered  his 
strength  and  had  got  to  his  feet  again.  With  a  snarl 
he  turned  to  Brush.  "What  in  Hell  are  you  doing?" 
demanded  he. 

"Why,  I  caught  you  just  in  time  to  save  you  from 
a  bath!" 

Don  said  this  with  such  coolness  that  for  a  mo 
ment  operations  ceased  and  the  three  glared  at  him, 
cursing  him  for  his  seeming  cowardice  and  unwilling 
ness  to  take  part  in  this  unequal  combat.  Spear  had 
quite  forgotten  that  he  had  told  Don  to  keep  out 


280  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

of  it. 

"By  God!"  he  roared,  "did  you  come  here  to  referee 
a  fight?" 

"Oh,  well,  if  you  put  it  that  way,  yes,"  remarked 
Don  in  exasperatingly  cheerful  tones.  "Mr.  Spear, 
you  invited  me  to  come  here  and  see  how  you  'trim' 
patients.  I  believe  that's  the  way  you  phrased  it. 
But  if  this  is  a  sample,  somebody  else  besides  Mor- 
rill  will  be  trimmed,  or  I  miss  my  guess.  As  you  sug 
gested  it,  I'll  referee  this  thing.  I  like  a  square  fight. 
The  three  of  you,  seems  to  me,  have  a  sweet,  pretty 
job  on  your  hands.  Get  together!" 

The  malignant  glances  they  shot  at  him  told  Brush 
his  turn  would  come  presently,  if  they  succeeded  with 
Morrill.  With  the  nonchalance  of  a  professional,  Don 
sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bath-tub. 

"Gentlemen,  proceed!"  Now  was  his  opportunity. 
Very  deftly  he  got  his  concealed  kodak  ready  for  ac 
tion. 

Morrill,  like  many  dipsomaniacs  in  easy  circum 
stances,  devoted  his  leisure  time  to  physical  culture. 
He  derived  as  much  pleasure  from  witnessing  exhibi 
tions  of  the  manly  art,  as  he  did  in  adding  dividends  to 
the  whiskey-trust.  These  three  huskies  from  the  log 
ging  camps  were  no  joke,  and  every  faculty  of  his  being 
was  stimulated  to  effort.  He  used  swift  tactics,  and 
brought  into  play  every  possible  scientific  move  to 
offset  the  mass  of  their  brute  force. 

He  was  afraid  they  might  use  the  neck-strangle,  so 
easy  for  two  opponents  to  accomplish — the  left  arm 
around  the  neck  with  the  right  acting  as  a  fulcrum, 
which  leaves  the  victim  completely  at  the  mercy  of 
his  antagonist. 

Swiftly  he  reflected.  He  was  as  clever  with  his  left 
as  with  his  right,  but  how  was  he  to  get  rid  of  the 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BATHROOM  281 

long-armed  Spear,  and  yet  ward  off  Fales  and  God- 
dard  ?  Ah — the  dip ! 

Suddenly  he  braced  his  right  foot  against  the  wall; 
and  with  a  lightning  duck  and  a  forward  lunge  his 
head  struck  Spear  in  the  pit  of  the  stomach.  The 
deputy  dropped  to  the  floor  with  a  gasping  groan. 

But  Morrill  had  been  a  second  too  slow.  Fales, 
with  the  impetus  of  a  leaping  wild-cat,  was  on  his  back. 
His  arms,  around  Merrill's  neck,  were  giving  not  the 
neck-strangle  but  the  head-twist.  An  eighth  of  an 
inch  beyond  the  quadrant  of  rotation  meant  an  almost 
imperceptible  click — a  broken  neck  and  instantaneous 
death.  This  is  the  trick  that  fools  the  doctors,  who 
accept  the  statement  of  the  nurses  that  the  patient 
has  died  of  "heart  failure." 

Morrill  knew  his  danger.  Instantly  he  threw  all 
his  strength  into  the  muscles  of  neck  and  shoulders 
in  the  opposite  direction  from  Fales',  keeping  his  eyes, 
meantime,  on  Goddard. 

As  the  latter  was  about  to  fall  upon  him  with  full 
strength,  Morrill  shot  his  right  foot  upward  and 
hooked  him  under  the  jaw.  The  impact  was  terrific. 
Goddard  fell  on  his  side,  and  for  the  present  nothing 
interested  him. 

On  that  instant  Morrill  slipped  his  right  thumb  into 
Fales'  eye-socket,  and  gouged.  A  murderous  punch 
did  the  rest.  Fales  with  a  choked  howl,  clutching  at 
his  eyes,  followed  Goddard  to  the  floor,  and  stayed 
there. 

It  was  a  busy  day  for  Nemesis,  so  far  as  Allandale 
was  concerned.  Meanwhile  other  events  were  for 
ward. 

It  seems  that  Morrill  had  a  sister  in  Winchester 
who  understood  the  true  nature  of  her  brother's  dis 
ease.  She  was  grief-stricken  when  she  discovered  he 


282  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

had  been  admitted,  on  an  emergency,  to  the  Asylum. 
The  circumstances  of  his  commitment  had  been  un 
usual.  She  had  telephoned  the  hospital  several  times ; 
then,  feeling  unsatisfied  with  the  vague  reports  of  the 
assistant  physician,  had  driven  out  to  Allandale,  her 
self. 

Miss  Morrill,  who  was  about  thirty,  rather  hand 
some  and  of  distinguished  bearing,  was  not  at  all  back 
ward  in  expressing  herself  as  to  the  looseness  of  a  sys 
tem  that  commits  a  man  to  the  asylum  simply  for 
going  on  a  drunk.  Moreover,  she  said,  drunk  or  sober, 
her  unfortunate  brother  was  never  a  menace  to  friends 
or  society.  She  insisted  that  he  be  brought  into  her 
presence  at  once,  or  that  she  be  taken  to  him.  This 
Dr.  Wilson  politely,  but  peremptorily,  declined  to  do, 
as  it  was  too  late  for  visitors,  and  no  exceptions  were 
made  in  any  case.  He  would  call  up  the  ward,  how 
ever,  he  said,  and  receive  the  report  of  the  attendant 
in  charge. 

While  this  interview  was  taking  place  in  Dr.  Wil 
son's  office,  sanguinary  history  was  being  made  in 
the  bathroom. 

Dr.  Wilson  lifted  the  receiver  and  called  the  single 
night-nurse.  That  young  man  was  at  the  moment  do 
ing  picket  duty  outside  the  bloody  "Temple  of  the. 
Bath."  After  repeated  calls,  the  superintendent 
dropped  the  receiver ;  and,  with  chagrin  at  his  failure 
to  get  an  answer  in  the  presence  of  so  distinguished  a 
visitor,  intensifying  his  rage  against  the  night-nurse, 
excused  himself  and  went  directly  to  the  violent  ward. 

There  was  no  sign  of  an  attendant,  and  when  he 
called,  "Nurse!  Nurse!"  no  response. 

Thoroughly  aroused  now,  he  entered  the  long  cor 
ridor  leading  to  the  bathroom,  at  the  door  of  which 
he  found  the  nurse  listening.  Shaking  with  indigna- 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BATHROOM  283 

tion,  he  roared: 

"See  here,  you!     Why  aren't  you  in  your  ward?" 

Covered  with  confusion,  in  a  faltering  voice  the 
nurse  replied  that  he  was  waiting  for  the  patient  in 
the  bath. 

"And  is  this  the  way  you  perform  your  duties? 
Open  that  door!" 

The  sight  that  met  Dr.  Wilson's  eyes  almost  un 
nerved  him,  trained  as  he  was  to  hold  himself  under 
control.  He  stared  at  Brush,  then  at  Morrill  and 
finally  at  the  three  men  on  the  blood-dabbled  floor, 
who  were  beginning  to  show  some  animation. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this?"  With  difficulty 
he  spoke  in  measured  tones. 

Brush  took  it  upon  himself  to  answer.  He  said 
briefly  that  he  had  been  invited  to  take  his  first  lesson 
in  bathing  and  "trimming"  a  patient. 

"I  assure  you,  Doctor,"  he  added,  "it  was  very 
instructing  and  interesting.  Look  at  the  tub !  Look 
at  Morrill's  face !  They  call  that  the  Swedish  move 
ment,  I'm  told.  Look  at  those  gentlemen  on  the  floor ! 
They've  evidently  been  overcome  by  the  air  in  this 
bathroom !" 

Dr.  Wilson  turned  on  him,  livid. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  such  flippancy,  sir?  Ex 
plain  yourself!" 

"I  mean  just  this!"  Don  cried,  his  voice  biting  like 
a  file.  "I  don't  believe  you  are  cognizant  of  the  trage 
dies  that  take  place  in  this  damned  slaughter-house. 
But  you  have  been  criminally  negligent.  You  have 
been  deaf,  dumb  and  blind  to  the  needs  of  the  poor 
creatures  consigned  to  your  professional  care.  You've 
smothered  every  attempt  at  investigation.  Yet  you 
know  that  the  frequent  complaints  of  cruelty  that  you 
receive  from  patients  are  not  the  result  of  deluded 


284  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

minds,  as  you  would  have  the  public  believe.  For  years 
they've  complained  of  the  abominable  food,  and  you've 
replied  that  it  was  the  same  as  that  served  at  your 
private  table.  You  know  you  lied,  when  you  said  it ! 

"You  know,  too,  that  you  haven't  one-third  enough 
nurses,  and  you  hire  the  cheapest  and  the  most  igno 
rant  and  heartless  members  of  society.  You  censor 
letters  you  have  no  legal  or  moral  right  to  touch,  and 
throw  most  of  them  into  the  waste-basket.  You  know 
that  you  compel  your  convalescents  to  work  hard. 
You  know  there  are  scores  here  as  sane  as  either  of 
us !  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  if  Allandale  were 
honestly  investigated  there  would  be  uncovered  a  series 
of  horrors  that  would  make  the  name  of  Massachu 
setts  a  hissing  and  a  by-word!  And  I  know,  and  you 
soon  will  know,  if  you  don't  now,  that  your  adminis 
tration  dates  its  end  from  tomorrow !" 

Dr.  Wilson  had  stood  as  if  in  a  trance.  Now  he 
sprang  forward. 

"Who  are  you  that  dare  talk  to  me — me ?"  He 

gasped  with  rage,  unable  to  continue. 

"Who  am  I?"  sneered  Don.  "Oh,  nobody;  only  a 
writer  generally  in  the  employ  of  the  Boston  Star 
• — but  in  this  instance  directly  employed  by  Dr.  George 
Clark!" 

Dr.  Wilson  leaned  faintly  up  against  the  wall.  Be 
fore  him  loomed  shame  and  personal  ruin,  if  this  night's 
work  were  once  disclosed  to  the  press.  He  considered. 

"How  long  have  you  been  here?"  he  stammered,  at 
last. 

"Nearly  seven  weeks." 

"Who  is  this  patient?" 

"His  name  is  Morrill,  and  he  is  confined  in  the  vio 
lent  ward." 

Dr.   Wilson   started,    for   he    suddenly   remembered 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BATHROOM  285 

Miss  Merrill,  waiting  in  the  office. 

"What   is  his    condition?" 

"Perfectly  sane.     He  never  belonged  here." 

"My  God!"  The  ejaculation  was  made  under  his 
breath,  but  the  superintendent's  face  went  gray.  With 
a  supreme  effort  he  gathered  himself  together. 

"Mr.  Morrill "  His  suave  manner,  as  he  ad 
dressed  himself  directly  to  the  fighter,  who  had  stood 
silent  and  cynical,  his  arms  folded  across  his  breast — 
"Mr.  Brush  will  give  you  your  clothes.  You  are  wel 
come  to  remain  in  one  of  the  rooms  of  my  own  apart 
ments,  if  you  choose." 

"Doctor,"  said  Morrill,  speaking  very  politely,  "my 
experience  in  this  Hell  hardly  warrants  me  in  accept 
ing  your  hospitality  or  in  extending  my  thanks  for 
the  magnificent  professional  interest  centered  in  me 
since  my  recent  arrival  here.  Mr.  Brush  will  bring  my 
clothes,  but  I'll  return  to  the  violent  ward,  in  which 
I've  found  all  the  comforts  of  home,  to  dress  myself." 
His  laugh  was  quite  polite,  but  a  trifle  unpleasant. 

The  three  men  on  the  floor  were  beginning  to  get 
to  their  feet.  They  had  much  the  same  wondering 
stare  in  their  faces,  as  the  poor  hysteric  who  returns 
to  consciousness  with  a  pitiful:  "Where  am  I?" 

Don  accompanied  Dr.  Wilson  as  far  as  the  office 
and  tendered  his  resignation,  to  take  effect  at  once. 

Wilson,  knowing  that  explanations  at  the  moment 
would  be  futile,  decided  to  allow  Morrill  to  leave  Al- 
landale  with  his  sister,  making  an  earnest  endeavor  to 
impress  upon  her  that,  if  he,  the  superintendent,  had 
been  at  the  hospital  the  night  before,  Morrill  would 
not  have  been  admitted.  His  watch  and  a  small  sum 
of  money  were  turned  over,  and  with  freezing  courtesy 
Morrill  and  his  sister  turned  their  backs  upon  Allan- 
dale,  an  "Institution"  supposed  to  cure  persons  of 


286  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

diseased  minds,  and  which  instead,  manufactured  id 
iots,  maniacs  and  corpses. 

As  soon  as  Dr.  Wilson  could  trust  himself  to  talk 
coherently  and  act  with  discretion,  he  ordered  that 
Spear,  Goddard  and  Fales  be  put  in  a  room  with  three 
beds,  and  that  under  no  pretense  was  any  one  to  be 
admitted  to  visit  them. 

He  went  back  to  the  ward  that  had  so  recently  har 
bored  the  scientific  gentleman  boxer.  The  few  sane 
patients  appeared  in  some  strange  way  to  understand 
what  had  happened.  They  were  discussing  in  whis 
pers  the  prolonged  absence  of  Morrill.  Hicks  was 
up  still,  and  had  refused  to  retire  till  he  felt  sleepy. 
This  was  against  the  rules,  but  he  had  no  fear  of  the 
night-attendant. 

Brush  had  come  into  the  ward  hurriedly,  after  leav 
ing  the  office,  and  had  in  a  few  words  apprised  Hicks 
of  the  events  of  the  evening.  Harold  was  fast  asleep, 
looking  so  wan  and  weary  that  Don  hadn't  the  heart  to 
wake  him,  even  had  he  been  able  to  do  so  without  arous 
ing  suspicion.  He  left  a  message  of  hope  for  Hicks 
to  deliver  in  the  morning. 

When  Dr.  Wilson  again  entered  the  ward,  the  nurse 
who  had  been  surprised  outside  the  bathroom  door 
approached  him. 

"What  do  you  know  of  the  unfortunate  occurrence 
in  the  bathroom?"  Dr.  Wilson's  tone  was  keen. 

"Nothing,  sir.  I  was  ordered  by  Mr.  Spear  to  take 
Morrill  there.  He  went  without  protest,  but  he  was 
gone  so  long  that  I  went  to  find  out  what  was  the 
matter.  I  was  listening,  as  you  came  along." 

"Is  it  customary  to  take  patients  to  the  bath  at 
eight  o'clock  in  the  evening?" 

"Yes,  sir,  if  we  are  very  busy  during  the  day." 

"How  often?" 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BATHROOM  287 

"Oh,  once  or  twice  a  week." 

"By  whose  orders?" 

"Mr.  Spear's." 

Looking  at  Hicks,  Dr.  Wilson  asked:  "Why  is  this 
man  up  and  dressed?" 

"Oh,  I've  ordered  him  to  bed  repeatedly,  but  he  re 
fuses  to  go.  The  last  time  he  told  me  to  'go  to  Hell.' ' 

Dr.  Wilson  lost  self-control,  and  burst  out  angrily: 

"I  wish  to  God  that  you,  and  the  whole  bunch, 
were  in  Hell!"  he  cried  violently.  He  was  leaving, 
when  the  muttered  remark  of  Laidlaw,  the  night  at 
tendant,  to  the  same  effect,  caught  his  ear. 

"What's  that?"  he  roared.  "You  wished  me  and 
all  the  doctors  in  Hell?" 

"If  there  is  such  a  place  outside  of  Allandale,  I  hope 
you're  all  on  the  way  there !"  retorted  Laidlaw  furi 
ously.  "I  came  here  to  learn  nursing.  Do  I  learn  it? 
Your  system  of  nursing  is  an  insult  to  the  profes 
sion.  I've  been  here  only  a  few  months,  but  I've 
seen  more  than  one  hurried  to  his  grave  by  those  bloody 
hands  in  the  bathroom.  They're  not  nurses ;  they're 
murderers !  If  you'd  personally  examine  into  a  few 
of  the  cases  whose  death  certificates  have  been  signed 
'heart  failure'  or  'alcoholism'  you'd  ha'  found  broken 
ribs  and  breast-bones,  and  pounded  or  stamped  faces ; 
and  if  you'd  had  an  honest  post-mortem  you'd  ha' 
found  fatal  internal  injuries.  The  nurses  explain  that 
by  saying  the  patient  fell  on  the  edge  of  the  bath-tub 
in  a  fit,  or  something.  I'm  done,  Wilson.  You  can 
have  my  resignation  in  the  morning." 

With  much  the  same  feeling  as  if  the  walls  of  Al 
landale  were  tumbling  in  upon  him,  Dr.  Wilson  hur 
ried  to  his  office  to  plan  a  campaign  for  bringing  order 
and  coherence  out  of  this  night's  confusion,  and  to 
save  himself,  and  the  institution,  if  he  could. 


CHAPTER    XXIX 

Freedom/ 

TWO  days  after  the  affair  of  the  bathroom,  things 
were  slowly  settling  into  their  usual  routine.  The 
nervous  apprehension  in  which  Dr.  Wilson  had  lived, 
had  almost  made  him  a  fit  subject  for  bed;  but  Allan- 
dale  had  been  thrown  into  such  utter  demoralization 
that  he  had  been  absolutely  forced  to  brace  up,  for 
get  his  own  tremors  and  concentrate  on  the  task  of 
bringing  order  out  of  chaos. 

In  mysterious  ways  the  news  of  the  battle  had  fil 
tered  through  every  department;  everybody  showed 
signs  of  restlessness,  and  in  some  quarters  the  atmos 
phere  seemed  surcharged  with  a  sentiment  of  mutiny. 
The  absence  of  Spear  from  his  place,  and  of  God- 
dard  and  Fales,  not  only  crippled  an  organization 
short,  at  best,  of  attendants  and  nurses,  but  gave 
point  to  every  rumor  afloat  of  the  sanguinary  con 
flict. 

Brush's  resignation  and  departure  had  left  the  vio 
lent  ward  short-handed,  and  twenty-four  hours  later 
Barbara  had  resigned  and  left  Allandale  by  the  after 
noon  train,  going  to  a  friend's  home  in  Newton.  Dr. 
Wilson  was  inclined  to  think  the  two  resignations 
closely  connected;  and  with  some  difficulty  he  lowered 
his  dignity  sufficiently  to  make  a  few  discreet  inquiries. 
He  thus  learned,  through  asylum  gossip,  that  Miss 
Avery  and  Mr.  Brush  were  lovers.  At  least,  they  had 

288 


FREEDOM  289 

often  been  seen  together  in  the  evenings  on  Ilex  walk 
or  about  the  grounds. 

Barbara,  when  asked  by  Dr.  Wilson,  declined  to 
give  any  specific  reason  for  resigning.  She  merely 
said  that  the  position  of  nurse  had  grown  obnoxious 
and  arduous,  and  that  a  way  had  opened  for  a  change 
of  vocation.  Very  apprehensively  Dr.  Wilson  watched 
her  leave.  He  was  instinctively  more  afraid  of  this 
calm,  reticent  woman,  than  of  Don. 

Whether  Morrill  or  his  sister  would  see  fit  to  make 
any  complaint  against  his  administration  he  could  not 
guess,  and  he  sweated  from  every  pore  for  four-and- 
twenty  hours;  but  after  this,  his  nerve  calmed  down. 
It  was  unlikely  that  Morrill  would  care  to  have  his 
dipsomania  tagged  with  publicity. 

Laidlaw,  the  night  attendant,  who  had  revolted  so 
unexpectedly,  could  do  no  particular  mischief;  for 
any  complaint  he  might  make  could  be  attributed  to 
the  petty  malice  of  a  discharged  attendant. 

As  for  Brush  and  his  employer — nothing  but  a 
fanatic,  the  man  Clark — three-fourths  of  what  Brush 
had  said  was  rhodomontade  and  Dr.  Clark  was 
a  damned  crank  whom  nobody  took  seriously.  And  the 
Boston  Star?  The  superintendent  grinned  nervously, 
but  derisively — the  counting-room  would  shut  down 
on  any  publicity  from  that  quarter !  The  heavi 
est  advertiser  in  the  Star  was  also  a  trustee  on  the 
Allandale  board,  and  that  same  trustee  had  a  political 
bee  buzzing  around  his  brow.  So  it  was  quite  unlikely 
that  he  would  want  any  search-light  investigations 
which  might  reflect  on  his  trusteeship  just  now.  This 
blustering  Brush  had  said  his  administration  would  end 
on  the  morrow.  Well,  it  hadn't;  and  another  day  was 
come  and  gone.  So  far,  so  good. 

Dr.  Wilson  breathed  quite  comfortably  as  he  sat 


290  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

down  to  dinner  with  his  family  in  their  luxurious  pri 
vate  apartment  and  opened  the  evening  paper  with 
only  a  faint  quivering  of  his  nerves.  The  next  moment 
his  eyes  bulged.  It  was  not  the  Star,  but  the  Boston 
Blade. 


SHOCKING  CONDITIONS  AT  ALLANDALE 

Strong-Arms  Beat  Insane — Graft  and  Cruelty! 

Administration  of  Superintendent  Wilson  Should  Be 
Investigated!  Reporter  Plays  Role  of  Attendant  in 
Violent  Ward  for  Seven  Weeks  and  Bares  Revolting 
Conditions — Sane  Men  Incarcerated! 

Mechanically  he  read  through  the  long  article,  in 
which  was  related  every  instance  of  cruelty  that  had 
occurred  at  Allandale  during  the  past  year.  He  read 
of  things  daily  taking  place  which  he  knew  now  for 
the  first  time.  He  sickened  at  the  revelation.  In  cold 
type  how  hideously  loomed  these  monstrous  things ! 

Ghastly  and  shaking,  he  pushed  back  his  chair  and 
went  abruptly  to  his  office.  There  he  seemed  suddenly 
gifted  with  a  prophet's  vision;  for  he  saw  distinctly 
that  with  the  possible  exception  of  the  Star,  not  a 
counting-room  of  any  newspaper  in  Boston  would  lay 
its  veto  on  the  editorial  department,  but  irrespective 
of  politics  would  print  every  cruel  detail.  It  was  his 
finish,  beyond  a  doubt — the  end  of  an  administration 
begun  auspiciously,  to  close  ingloriously,  leaving  him 
a  dishonored  man  for  life. 

The  sun  came  in  through  the  western  window,  rest 
ing  its  beneficent  radiance  on  the  bowed  head  of  Dr. 
Wilson,  Superintendent  of  Allandale.  He  knew  al- 


FREEDOM  291 

ready  he  was  beaten,  but  he  would  go  on  fighting.     He 
would  not  resign;  let  them  oust  him,  if  they  could. 

A  special  delivery  letter  reached  Barbara  at  break 
fast.      "We    are    to    be   married    tomorrow,    come    at 


once 


i" 


Smiling  at  the  sudden  note  of  authority,  but  loving 
him  more  for  it,  and  for  his  ardency,  Barbara  left 
Newton  on  the  first  Boston  train.  Don  took  her  di 
rectly  to  Dr.  George's  home,  where  the  doctor  and 
his  lovely,  warm-hearted  wife  gave  her  the  warmest 
of  welcomes.  Next  day  they  were  married.  Don  ex 
plained  that  there  was  much,  very  much,  to  be  done 
and  that  a  thousand  cares  lay  on  his  mind.  He 
couldn't  bear  the  thought  of  living  without  her  an 
hour  longer,  and  now,  since  fortune  had  begun  to  smile 
on  him,  he  proposed  to  let  her  do  all  the  planning. 

First,  of  course,  Don  had  gone  to  Dr.  George  and 
laid  the  result  of  his  investigation  before  him,  with 
the  photograph  of  the  assault  that  he  had  been  able 
to  secure.  The  story  was  then  given  to  the  Blade, 
and  the  search-light  of  that  powerful  newspaper  was 
instantly  turned  on  Allandale.  Not  only  this,  but  the 
managing  editor  of  the  Blade,  after  a  brief  talk,  of 
fered  Don  a  place  on  that  paper,  with  salary  enough  to 
warrant  him  in  marrying.  At  Don's  expressing  grate 
ful  surprise,  the  manager  grinned  affably,  "I've  read 
your  stuff  some  years.  It's  always  been  first-rate. 
Keep  straight  and  you  can  stay  as  long  as  I  do !" 

Harold's  release  was  now  their  instant  concern,  and 
the  discovery  of  Hicks'  kindred.  Then  with  the  legis 
lative  investigation  of  Allandale,  there  would  be  many 
busy  days  ahead. 

So  Barbara,  frankly  glad,  had  asked  for  no  delay; 
and  to  her  Don  had  relinquished  the  joys  of  house- 


292  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

hunting  and  settling,  urged  by  his  anxiety  over  Har 
old,  an  anxiety  Barbara  felt  with  equal  keenness.  It 
was  their  dream  that,  upon  his  release,  Harold  should 
find  them  in  their  own  abode,  and  know  what  a  real 
home-coming  meant. 

Ten  days  later,  Harold  sat  at  their  table,  and  in 
the  joy  of  his  reunion  with  Don,  the  sweet  home-air, 
the  calm,  the  peace,  his  youth  almost  came  back  to 
him.  Perhaps  when  only  the  scars  of  memory  re 
mained,  perhaps  then,  that  look  of  inner  radiance 
might  yet  return. 

He  glanced  about  at  the  quaint,  long  room  with  its 
French  windows  standing  open  on  the  veranda,  the 
lilies  of  September  flaming  in  the  garden,  still  beauti 
ful,  even  though  their  gorgeous  petals  were  closing  as 
the  sun  began  to  set. 

Harold  had  taken  no  time  to  wonder  over  the  mar 
riage  of  his  friend  to  this  magnificent,  whole-souled 
woman,  and  his  prosperous  accession  to  this  old-fash 
ioned  little  house  in  the  suburbs.  He  was  too  utterly 
weary  to  conjecture  about  anything. 

The  days  following  Don's  departure  from  Allan- 
dale  he  had  borne  patiently ;  and  two  weeks  later,  when 
summoned  to  the  office  of  Dr.  Wilson,  he  there  faced 
Don,  with  Dr.  George,  whom  he  had  first  disbelieved 
when  the  physician  had  uttered  his  terrible  denuncia 
tions  of  the  iniquities  of  asylums;  but,  who,  he  knew 
now  at  such  bitter  cost,  had  spoken  only  the  hideous 
truth.  Dr.  Wilson  released  Harold  on  the  evidence 
presented,  which  was  indisputable,  that  he  had  been 
illegally  incarcerated  through  a  conspiracy.  Dr.  Wil 
son  was  a  broken  man,  though  he  was  trying  des 
perately  to  bluff  through  the  investigation  immediately 
pending. 

Harold   had   the   satisfaction   of   seeing   Hicks  lib- 


FREEDOM  293 

erated  the  day  before  himself.  A  sister  had  appeared, 
the  sister  whom  Hicks  had  so  long  and  patiently  been 
expecting  and  with  whom  Don  at  last  had  succeeded 
in  getting  in  touch.  Harold  had  become  attached  to 
Hicks,  and  through  him  had  learned  of  Don's  unvary 
ing  kindness,  his  discipline  and  the  efforts  he  had  made 
on  his  behalf.  This  had  given  him  courage  to  wait. 

Don,  Harold  and  Dr.  George  had  left  Allandale  by 
automobile,  and  on  the  drive  into  Boston  the  long 
story  of  events,  from  the  moment  they  had  been  sep 
arated  in  front  of  the  Art  Studio  to  the  moment  he 
had  caught  sight  of  Harold  in  the  window  on  that 
fading  afternoon  of  early  July,  Don  told  at  last.  Only 
one  thing  did  Don  withhold — the  story  of  what  Dr. 
Phillips  had  been  to  Barbara,  although  he  did  tell  that 
Barbara  had  at  one  time  expected  to  marry  the  physi 
cian. 

Dr.  George  had  left  the  two,  as  soon  as  they  had 
reached  Boston.  Tomorrow  the  three  would  take  up 
the  matter  of  getting  after  the  conspirators.  Until 
then  (Dr.  George  spoke  in  his  professional  capacity) 
he  counselled  Harold  to  put  out  of  his  mind  all  thought 
of  his  wrongs.  This  night  he  must  relax  and  lay  his 
head  down  in  such  tranquil  sleep  as  he  might  now 
command.  "Brooding  on  one's  wrongs,  anyway,  is  apt 
to  narrow  the  mind.  Brooding  on  the  wrongs  of 
others,  on  the  contrary,  may  widen  it,"  said  Dr. 
George. 

"May?"  asked  Don,  looking  at  the  Doctor.  "Your 
verb's  in  the  wrong  mood.  It  does  !"  Then  Dr.  George 
colored  a  little,  and  they  both  laughed. 

And  so  the  car  drew  up  before  the  long,  low,  green- 
hung  house  that  now  was  Don's  and  Barbara's  home; 
and  Harold  saw  waiting  with  outstretched  hands  a 
tall  woman  with  a  Madonna  face — a  face  still  faintly 


294  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

shadowed  by  the  suffering  past;  and   on  the  instant 
he  remembered  he  had  seen  her  before,  and  where. 

In  her  eyes  were  tears — tears  of  happiness.  His 
eyes  were  wet,  as  well;  and  in  that  moment  he  knew 
that,  after  all,  life  was  kind. 


CHAPTER    XXX 
Aftermath* 

THAT  night  for  the  first  time  in  many  weeks,  Har 
old  slept  in  a  clean  and  restful  bed,  the  dark 
ness  of  September  with  its  fragrant,  autumn  tang  lying 
just  outside  his  open  window,  so  close  he  could  put 
out  his  hand  and  seem  to  touch  it.  And  yet,  only 
last  night  he  had  been  assailed  by  hellish  noises ;  and 
oppression  like  a  cloud  had  hung  on  him,  while  fetid 
stenches  had  offended  his  acute,  protesting  senses. 

At  Allandale,  tonight,  it  would  be  the  same,  and 
a  thousand  other  nights. 

Before  he  slept,  he  visualized  every  familiar  hide 
ous  hour  of  the  day,  and  saw  himself  again  looking 
wistfully  out  of  the  barred  windows  at  the  green,  arch 
ing  avenues  of  Allandale — hideous  paths  of  despair. 
But,  thank  God !  at  last  he  was  out  of  that  charnel- 
house,  for  the  hand  of  a  friend  had  clasped  his  grop 
ing  fingers  in  the  darkness.  Fate  had  indeed  been 
kind.  He  sat  up  in  bed  suddenly.  Yes — Fate  had 
been  good  to  him — but  what  of  those  thousand  others? 

A  long  while  he  stared  into  the  autumn  night,  then 
presently  he  laid  him  down  again.  He  knew  at  last, 
now,  all  in  one  clarifying  second,  the  meaning  and 
the  promise  of  his  long  anguish ;  and  then  he  fell  asleep, 
profoundly. 

He  awoke  to  hear  deep  and  far-off  bell-tones.  They 
vibrated  slowly.  He  listened.  Solemnly,  at  long  but 
equal  intervals,  they  smote  upon  the  ear. 

295 


296 

At  the  breakfast-table,  Don  informed  him  that 
Judge  Chambers  was  dead,  and  that  the  tale  of  his 
years  had  just  been  tolled  by  the  bell. 

His  house  was  only  half  a  dozen  blocks  from 
"Dreamwold,"  the  fanciful  name  Barbara  had  given 
their  little  home. 

"Chambers?"  Harold's  tone  was  vibrant.  "He's 
the  man  who  sent  me  there!" 

"That  will  complicate  matters,  I'm  afraid,  Hal," 
commented  Don  in  a  tone  of  some  dismay.  "While 
Judge  Chambers  was  probably  as  lax  as  most  officials, 
yet  I  very  much  doubt  if  he  would  have  winked  at  send 
ing  a  sane  man  to  Allandale.  They  must  have  fooled 
him  in  some  way." 

"Possibly,"  said  Harold,  "but  what  business  has  a 
judge  to  be  fooled?" 

"The  court  records  in  this  instance  are  not  of  vital 
importance,"  answered  Don,  ignoring  the  indignant 
question.  "It  would  have  been  difficult  to  recall  the 
whole  matter  to  his  mind,  and  his  viewpoint  would  have 
been  uncertain.  He  might  have  been  afraid — in  view 
of  the  pending  investigation — that  his  having  com 
mitted  a  sane  man  to  an  asylum  would  injure  him  po 
litically.  So  he  might  have  taken  the  ground  that 
you  were  insane  at  the  time  of  your  commitment;  or 
he  might  have  been  indignant  at  the  affront  put  on 
him  in  deceiving  the  court,  and  have  had  the  case  re 
opened,  and  the  offenders  punished;  or  he  might  have 
simply  forgotten  the  whole  thing, — passed  it  up  into 
the  limbo  of  a  judicial  mind.  We  shall  never  know. 
But  tomorrow  sees  the  machinery  of  the  law  set  in 
motion  against  those  scoundrels,  damn  them!" 

"I  fear  it  will  be  useless,"  said  Harold,  quietly. 

"Hal,  you  haven't  lost  your  nerve,  have  you?  The 
fighting,  obstinate  attributes  I  loved  in  you?"  Don's 


AFTERMATHS  £97 

tone  was  full  of  affectionate  protest. 

"Nerve?"  Harold  passed  his  hand  over  his  fore 
head.  "No,"  he  shut  his  lips  grimly,  "it's  just  some 
thing  I  feel." 

Once  more  his  intuition  had  spoken  truth.  The 
three  weeks  that  followed  were  exciting  enough.  The 
first  week,  Boston  talked  of  nothing  but  the  exposure 
of  Allandale.  The  newspapers  were  crammed  with 
it.  Then  most  of  them  dropped  the  matter  abruptly; 
and  in  ten  days  newer  topics  absorbed  all  but  the 
Blade.  The  throb  of  fresher  sensations  swept  Allan- 
dale  away  from  public  interest. 

To  be  sure,  the  investigation  of  Allandale  resulted 
in  the  ousting  of  Superintendent  Wilson,  and  a  few 
other  drastic  changes  in  personnel.  Conditions  were 
ameliorated  in  some  respects.  The  papers  spoke  of 
the  thorough  "purging"  of  Allandale,  and  of  "sweep 
ing  measures  of  reform."  In  four  weeks  the  topic 
was  dead  as  a  stone. 

Having  done  all  that  it  could,  and  kept  up  the  fight 
longer  than  any  other  newspaper  in  Boston,  the 
Blade  finally  dropped  the  matter. 

Harold,  Don,  Barbara  and  Hicks  had  all  testified 
at  the  hearing.  The  photograph  of  the  famous  "Bat 
tle  of  the  Bath"  had  adorned  the  front  pages  of  the 
Blade.  The  notoriety  to  the  four  concerned  was 
revolting;  but  Merrill's  Athletic  Club,  delighted  with 
his  prowess,  gave  him  a  banquet  (at  which  he  had 
sense  enough  to  keep  sober),  and  toasted  him  as  a 
likely  "White  Man's  Hope." 

Now  occurred   a  curious  phenomenon. 

The  story  of  Harold's  invention,  how  and  by  whom 
it  had  been  filched  from  him,  was  given  to  the  world. 
Barbara  and  Dr.  George  looked  for  an  overwhelming 
public  sentiment  that  would  eddy  toward  Harold  in 


298  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

compassionate  waves — a  sentiment  so  vast  that  the 
conspirators  would  quail  before  it. 

But  Don's  newspaper  wisdom  made  him  skeptical, 
and  that  subtile  intuition  which  is  the  gift  of  the  gods 
to  a  dreamer,  made  Harold  doubtful. 

Had  the  story  been  printed  simultaneously  with  the 
expose  of  Allandale,  popular  sympathy  would  have 
been  at  white  heat.  But  it  was  not  given  to  the  pa 
pers  until  the  wave  of  psychological  reaction  had  set 
in.  Folks — good  folks — whose  emotions  had  been 
keyed  up  to  high  tension,  suddenly  began  to  comfort 
themselves  with  the  age-old  assurance:  "Oh,  the  news 
papers  always  make  things  out  a  great  deal  worse 
than  they  are.  Inventors,  like  poets,  are  mostly  crazy, 
anyway.  This  Fitzgerald  is  one  of  them ;  he  probably 
belonged  in  Allandale.  It's  a  delusion  of  his  that  his 
invention  was  stolen — how  can  one  believe  the  testi 
mony  of  an  inmate  of  Allandale?  The  very  fact  he 
was  there  shows  that  something  was  wrong!" 

Damnably  subtle  was  the  suggestion  made  by  one 
of  the  papers  that  had  been  quickest  to  drop  the  asy 
lum  atrocities  and  toss  to  the  ravenous  public  a  fresh, 
raw  "sensation."  First  it  vaguely  hinted  that  Fitz 
gerald's  invention  was  a  delusion ;  then  it  came  out 
boldly  and  affirmed  it.  And  on  the  following  Sunday, 
Don,  Harold  and  Barbara  saw  with  grief  and  horror 
that  it  had  "featured"  a  "Story  of  Harold"  and  his 
career  in  Dunkirk,  Pennsylvania. 

The  story  contained  the  testimony  of  old  neighbors, 
who,  overcome  with  delight  at  the  prospect  of  getting 
into  print,  had  hysterically  said  anything  the  paper 
wanted  them  to  say.  It  gave  out  statements  with  just 
enough  truth  in  them  to  make  them  more  insidious 
than  the  most  outrageous  lie. 

They  testified,  these  neighbors  of  Harold,  that  the 


AFTERMATHS  299 

Fitzgeralds  had  always  been,  well — "queer."  They 
told  of  "crazy  Kenwyn  Fitzgerald"  and  his  myriad  un 
successful  inventions.  Nobody  denied  the  eccentricity 
of  father  and  son ;  and  at  a  hundred  thousand  break 
fast  tables,  Bostonians  read: 

"Is  this  Harold  Fitzgerald  a  mad  genius,  or  an  ir 
responsible  lunatic  with  delusions,  who  has  occasional 
rational  periods  and  has  been  released  from  restric 
tion  during  one  of  them?" 

The  public  hates  to  be  forced  to  think.  It  accepted 
the  version  of  the  newspaper,  quite  comfortably.  In 
all  probability  Harold  was  an  irresponsible  dreamer 
with  a  fixed  delusion  that  he  had  invented  something 
and  that  it  had  been  stolen  from  him. 

"Poor  fellow !"  sighed  Boston,  and  straightway  for 
got  him. 

But  Harold?  From  him  the  foul  stigma,  that  horrid 
blight  of  insanity  would  not  (it  seemed)  lift  itself;  and 
none  knew  better  than  he  that  all  the  compassion  and 
infinite  pity  of  the  human  soul  cannot  keep  out  the 
shudder  and  dreadful  curiosity  with  which  the  world 
looks  on  an  insane  person ;  looks  even  on  a  mere  sus 
pect,  or  one  against  whom  this  crime  of  crimes  has 
been  charged. 

Dr.  Phillips  and  his  wife  had  flitted  to  Egypt  im 
mediately  after  the  conditions  in  Allandale  had  become 
public  and  Harold's  release  been  made  known  to  the 
world.  When  Harold  went  to  the  apartment  where 
Don  and  he  had  been  so  happily  domiciled,  he  found 
it  had  changed  hands.  A  new  clerk  answered  his  ques 
tions  politely,  but  without  personal  interest.  No  let 
ters  had  been  received  for  Mr.  Fitzgerald.  "Oh — some 
months  ago?"  He  would  inquire  and  see. 


300  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

After  a  time  he  announced  briefly  that  all  mail  ad 
dressed  to  that  name  had  been  ordered  sent  to  Dr. 
Sydney  Phillips.  Yes,  the  order  was  in  Mr.  Fitzger 
ald's  hand.  Harold  asked  to  see  the  order,  and  pres 
ently  looked  upon  his  own  signature. 

Oh,  but  they  had  been  clever.  How  clever  he 
learned  soon,  when  he  faced  Jackberry  himself.  That 
gentleman  never  flinched,  but  got  up  and  offered  his 
hand  cordially.  When  Harold,  paling  at  such  ef 
frontery,  stood  contemptuously  silent,  Jackberry 
grabbed  his  hand  and  then  began  shaking  his  head 
pityingly.  In  a  flash  Harold  understood  the  role. 

So  that  was  it?  He  sat  down  weakly.  God!  Must 
he  fight  this  hideous  vague  shadow — this  cobweb  hor 
ror — instead  of  something  concrete  and  tangible  that 
he  could  get  hold  of  with  his  hands? 

"I  hoped,  all  along,  a  few  months'  rest  would  re 
store  you,  Mr.  Fitzgerald,"  the  Senator  soothingly 
murmured,  "but  you  seem  to  look  on  me  as  if  I  were 
an  enemy.  What's  that?  Why,  my  dear  fellow,  that 
little  business  transaction  between  us  was  perfectly 
regular " 

Never  till  his  death  would  he  forget  the  days  that 
followed,  and  his  soul's  revolt.  For  though  his  in 
tuition  had  told  him  his  invention  was  forever  gone, 
the  actual  fact  was  hard  to  bear.  In  those  first  days 
after  his  release  from  Allandale,  his  brain  had  still 
been  apathetic  and  numb  with  suffering.  He  simply 
could  not  grasp  the  fact,  even  though  he  seemed  to 
know  it  in  advance.  It  was  as  if  all  human  props  had 
suddenly  been  withdrawn,  and  he  was  fighting  alone, 
his  back  to  the  wall. 

All  that  Jackberry  and  Winn  did  was  to  deny,  with 
out  excitement,  every  charge  that  Harold  and  his  law 
yers  made  against  them.  They  simply  laughed,  and 


AFTERMATHS  301 

then  shook  their  heads  pityingly,  as  one  does  at  the 
frenzies  of  one  who  is  not  "all  there,"  as  they  signifi 
cantly  hinted. 

Then  Harold  learned  the  utter  uselessness  of  the  bat 
tle.  The  conspirators  had  patented  and  added  to  the 
Neo-Geo  a  little  addition  he  had  kept  back.  He  had 
no  way  of  proving  this  as  his  invention.  He  discov 
ered,  too,  that  the  vague,  rambling  paper  he  had  signed 
before  the  probate  judge  had  held  a  joker  in  it.  He 
had  signed  away  every  right,  interest  and  title  to  his 
own  patent.  The  conspirators  had  been  diabolically 
clever.  They  had  taken  no  chances  whatever.  Thrust 
ing  him  into  Allandale  had  simply  kept  him  out  of  the 
way  and  prevented  him  from  making  any  unpleasant 
ness  before  they  had  got  well  started  on  their  march 
to  millions. 

At  first,  these  men  had  paid  for  a  private  room  and 
a  few  creature  comforts  for  him.  After  a  time,  as 
vast  prosperity  had  come  to  them,  it  had  calloused 
them  so  that  no  spark  of  humanity  had  remained,  and 
they  had  forgotten  all  about  him.  If  they  had  thought 
of  him  at  all,  it  had  been  to  reflect  that  Allandale 
would  simply  finish  up  what  nature  had  begun,  and 
that  he  was  a  half-cracked  enthusiast,  at  best.  The 
testimony  of  his  personal  friend  and  physician,  Dr. 
Phillips,  and  the  unbiased  statement  of  Dr.  Martin 
Winn,  would  be  sufficient  to  justify  their  action,  if 
worse  came  to  worst. 

Subtle  suggestion  in  the  newspaper,  inertia  of  the 
public  mind — these  worked  their  cumulative  ill;  and 
so  long  as  life  might  last,  Harold  Fitzgerald  would 
have  to  bear  that  stigma. 

But,  in  that  house  when  Sydney  Phillips  had  first 
visited  Harold's  little  workshop  and  cast  covetous  eyes 
upon  that  invention,  forces  had  been  set  in  motion — 
forces  for  good — to  which  the  centuries  would  vibrate. 
That  had  been  an  epoch-making  hour. 


CHAPTER    XXXI 

The  Greater  Call 

DON  and  Harold  were  sitting  in  the  living-room; 
Barbara  was  busying  herself  elsewhere.  A 
marked  change  had  come  over  her  since  marriage.  She 
grew  girlish  before  one's  very  eyes.  The  change  that 
had  altered  Don  was  equally  marked.  A  certain  dig 
nity  of  carriage  had  been  added  to  his  energy,  and 
the  boyish  darkness  of  his  eyes  now  held  a  depth,  a 
profundity  of  vital  purpose  in  them,  which  made  men 
sometimes  turn  to  look  at  him. 

And  now — if  only  the  shadows  might  lift  from  Har 
old  !  Don's  heart  ached  with  the  wrong.  Clearly  there 
was  nothing  at  all  to  be  done  about  it;  and  most  bit 
ter  thing  of  all  to  Don,  the  conspirators  would  go 
unpunished.  In  the  apathetic  eyes  of  Boston,  the  men 
whose  names  had  been  mentioned  in  the  conspiracy  had 
vindicated  themselves  by  showing  legal  possession  of 
the  invention,  and  Harold  was  therefore  an  irresponsi 
ble,  eccentric  genius  with  delusions. 

It  was  Harold  himself  who  now  developed  a  pe 
culiar  stubbornness. 

"What's  the  use?"  he  said  with  a  strange  smile,  to 
Don.  "We  can't  do  anything  without  money.  It  would 
take  years  of  fighting  and  delay,  and  the  cost  of  prose 
cution,  of  proving  my  case,  would  be  enormous.  I've 
talked  with  lawyers,  and  so  have  you.  They've  got 
the  machine ;  they've  been  operating  it  for  months,  and 
possession  is  nine  points  of  the  law.  They've  got  my 

302 


303 

signature,  signing  away  my  invention;  oh!  they  forgot 
nothing!  How  am  I  to  prove  that  they  drugged  me, 
and  that  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  doing,  when  I  signed 
those  papers? 

"Moreover,  they've  put  on  me  this  blight  of  insanity 
— it's  just  what  the  poor  fools  in  Dunkirk  did  to 
father.  And  yet  I  know  men  today,  rich  through 
inventions  of  my  father,  that  they  defrauded  him 
of —  He  had  spoken  in  bitterness,  but  now  his 

voice  relaxed.  "Don,  I'm  going  back  for  a  while  to 
my  western  home,  where  father  died." 

Don  was  drawing  on  his  pipe  just  then.  He  smoked 
but  rarely  now,  because  he  liked  to  keep  clean  lips 
for  Barbara.  The  long  windows  stood  open,  and  the 
shadows  of  the  shorter-growing  days  were  beginning 
to  creep  into  the  room. 

"Well,  if  you  feel  you  must  go,  Hal,  I  won't  hold 
you  back,"  Don  said  dejectedly,  "but  I  can't  bear  the 
thought  of  your  going  back  to  that  lonely  house — not 
under  the  circumstances.  Barbara  and  I  want  you  to 
stay  with  us  indefinitely." 

Harold  arose  and  paced  the  floor. 

"You  two  and  Dr.  George  are  the  only  friends  I've 
got  in  the  world,  now,  and  I  don't  need  any  others," 
he  said  impulsively  and  boyishly.  He  was  looking  like 
the  old  Harold  again,  just  at  that  moment.  Most 
of  the  time  the  boyishness  had  gone,  and  in  its  stead 
was  a  maturity  that  puzzled  Don.  A  brooding  man 
had  succeeded  the  dreaming  boy. 

"Go  I  must,"  he  repeated  presently.  "My  work 
calls  me,  and  my  home  is  there." 

He  stopped  pacing  and  looked  out  of  the  window, 
lost  in  a  sudden  abstraction.  Don's  voice  brought 
him  back. 

"Phillips  hustled  off  to  Egypt  in  a  hurry,  didn't  he? 


304  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

There  was  one  of  that  cobra  nest,  anyway,  who  didn't 
dare  to  face  you!"  he  exclaimed. 

Harold  turned.  "Yes,  he  wasn't  quite  ready  to  face 
me  yet,  after  having  rented  my  house  to  strangers,  as 
if  there  were  to  be  no  resurrection  for  me.  The  agents 
never  knew  the  difference,  of  course.  I  have  only  a 
life-interest  in  the  house.  Phillips  had  my  power  of 
attorney  to  act  for  me,  and  he  evidently  intended  to 
appropriate  my  income.  In  fact,  I've  found  out  that 
I  was  paying  for  my  own  maintenance  at  Allandale, 
those  first  few  months.  Then  he  got  greedy  and 
stopped  sending  even  my  own  money  to  keep  me !  How 
long  things  could  have  gone  on  that  way  before  the 
fraud  was  discovered,  I  don't  know.  But  it  hadn't 
been,  up  to  the  time  of  the  newspaper  disclosure,  and 
even  then  Phillips'  private  rascality  wasn't  suspected. 

"By  the  time  I  got  into  communication  with  my 
agents,  Phillips  had  been  frightened,  and  I  was  wired 
that  all  moneys  due  me  had  been  placed  to  my  credit. 
Phillips  knew  it  would  be  easy  enough  to  land  him  in 
prison  for  an  offense  of  that  kind;  but  for  me  to  prove 
that  he  and  the  others  maliciously  deprived  me  of  my 
personal  liberty  is  impossible.  Anyhow,  my  money  is 
intact,  so  I  can't  get  hold  of  Phillips  that  way — and — 
well,  I  haven't  enough  money  or  time  to  waste  on  a 
mere  matter  of  individual  punishment." 

Don  had  risen  and  was  protesting  vehemently  as  he 
paced  the  floor. 

"What  is  time  or  money,  Hal,  when  you  consider 
what's  at  stake?  That  machine  has  already  proved  it 
self  worth  millions.  Consider,  for  God's  sake,  man, 
consider!  You'll  not  have  to  fight  this  thing  alone — 
there'll  be  a  score  of  men  back  of  you  and  your  inven 
tion,  if  you  just  say  the  word Why,  Dr.  George 

will  arrange " 


THE  GREATER  CALL  305 

Harold  faced  him,  his  head  thrown  back  in  the  old, 
arrogant  way. 

"Invention?  Machine?"  cried  he.  "There  are  more 
where  that  came  from,  if  I  ever  want  them!"  He 
tapped  his  forehead,  smiling  superbly.  It  was  the 
supreme  genius  who  spoke.  Don  fell  silent. 

"You  say  you  haven't  time,  Hal?"  asked  he,  pres 
ently.  "Are  you  going  to  develop  something  else — 
have  you  some  other  invention  already  in  mind?" 

Harold  sat  down  and  slowly  answered: 

"No,  not  yet.  Of  course,  you  know,  I  need  money 
to  carry  out  my  life-work — as  I've  planned  it."  He 
paused.  "I  haven't  very  much,  and  this  last  year  has 
been  a  drain  on  my  slender  resources.  It's  enough, 
though,  to  keep  me  without  worry.  I  have  ideas  for 
inventions  in  my  head — yes ;  but  it  would  take  money 
and  months  of  delay  to  work  them  out;  and  then  the 
going  over  the  same  weary  ground  that  has  ended  in 
this  disaster.  No,  it  will  not  be  that  way  I  shall  turn 
my  eyes !" 

His  tone  had  grown  abstract,  far-away,  dreamy — 
his  eyes  wore  the  look  of  inner  concentration. 

"The  faces  are  calling  me,  Don!  Calling — call 
ing " 

Don,  who  had  been  leaning  against  the  window, 
started,  laid  his  pipe  on  the  mantel  and  abruptly  faced 
Harold.  Taking  his  friend's  lapels  firmly  in  his  fin 
gers,  he  looked  deeply  into  his  eyes. 

"What  I'm  going  to  say  will  hurt,  boy •"  He 

drew  his  breath  in  hard.  "Don't  ever  mention  those 
faces" — he  was  now  stammering  awkwardly, — "to  any 
one  but  me.  7  know  you — /  understand.  Do  you 
see?" 

"I  see."  Harold's  tone  was  quiet.  "We've  got  to 
take  the  world  as  it  is  and  not  as  it  ought  to  be;  and 


306  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

the  world  would  decide  I  should  never  have  been  al 
lowed  to  leave  Allandale,  if  I  see  faces  appealing  to 
me,  or  hear  voices  calling  out  for  help.  I  believe  that's 
one  of  the  sure  delusions.  I  learned  a  few  things  at 
Allandale." 

He  was  now  smiling  again.      Don  gulped  in  relief. 

"Just  so,  Hal,"  he  said.  "You've  got  to  walk  cir 
cumspectly  for  the  rest  of  your  life,  if  you  would  throw 
off  that  terrible  blight.  But  God! — the  cruel  injus 
tice  of  it !  It's  worse  than  a  taint  of  blood— 

"And  how  about  those  countless  others?"  Harold's 
tone  had  grown  vibrant — "those  who  have  not  been 
freed — for  whom  no  hand  of  a  friend  has  been 
stretched  out?  It's  their  voices  I  hear,  calling  for  me 
to  free  them.  And  I  hear  the  voices  of  little  slaving 
children  and  anguished  helpless  women —  — !  It  was 
for  them  I  was  toiling  to  get  my  invention  on  the 
market.  I  wanted  money,  money  that  I  might  start 
into  motion  the  forces  necessary  to  bring  about  their 
liberty  and  happiness.  Yet  out  of  my  very  hands 
my  invention  was  snatched.  And  added  to  the  chorus 
of  their  pitiful  voices  I  now  hear  the  moans  and  shrieks 
of  the  helpless  ones  in  Allandale- —  He  lifted  his 

head,  as  if  listening.  "I  hear  them  calling  from  a 
hundred  quarters.  I  must  be  at  my  work,  Don — there 
is  no  time  to  lose !  The  faces,  the  thousand  faces  are 
calling  me !" 

Don  stood  hushed,  awed,  understanding  at  last. 
This  was  no  dreamer ;  this  was  a  seer,  a  prophet. 
There  would  be  those  who  would  call  him  a  mystic,  a 
fanatic,  a  lunatic.  But  Don,  watching  him  there  under 
the  gleam  of  the  electrolier,  had  an  instant  of  pro 
phetic  vision,  himself.  He  felt,  he  knew,  that  the  "boy" 
was  dreaming  true.  Harold's  was  to  be  the  hand  to 
let  loose  those  forces  that  would  some  day  strike  the 


THE  GREATER  CALL  307 

shackles  off  helpless  children,  patient  women  and  plod 
ding,  hopeless  men;  his  the  hand  that  would  open 
the  doors  of  charnel-houses  where  the  quick  lived  with 
the  dead. 

Harold  began  to  speak  again  in  tenser  tones. 

"There  are  things,  Don,  I  saw  at  Allandale  which 
I  have  not  told,  even  to  you.  I  saw  loathsome,  un 
speakable  things  openly  practiced.  I  saw  men  and 
women  helpless  and  sane  as  myself,  compelled  -to  be 
hold  such  infamies.  It  was  my  human  revolt  at  this 
insubordination,  they  called  it,  that  landed  me  in  the 
violent  ward.  It  makes  my  soul  shudder  to  recall — 
what  I  saw.  Listen,  Don — I  know  why  I  was  made  to 
suffer — it  was  that  I  might  see  the  road  my  feet  must 
travel.  Before,  I  thought  the  way  lay  through  my 
invention — that  I  must  have  millions  at  my  back  before 
I  could  do  the  things  I  dreamed. 

"Millions !  Yes,  I  must  still  have  the  millions " 

He  lifted  his  head,  and  his  voice  rang  like  a  bugle. 
"But  it  isn't  money,  Don.  It's  men!" 

Don  thrilled  from  finger-tip  to  heel.  Harold's  face 
was  aflame,  and  the  words  came  leaping,  now,  as  only 
an  Irish  orator  can  hurl  them,  who  has  been  touched 
by  the  divine  spark: 

"Nothing  on  earth  can  withstand  The  People,  Don, 
if— if  they  only  have  a  leader !  Don,  /  shall  be  their 
leader !  This  is  my  life-work !" 

On  his  face  shone  the  inner  radiance  of  consecra 
tion.  After  a  moment's  brooding  silence  he  said, 
softly : 

"My  work  calls  me,  Don,  though  every  lonely  in 
stinct  in  me  craves  to  stay  and  rest  here,  with  Barbara 
and  you.  Through  what  strange  ways  and  devious 
paths  my  feet  will  travel  in  the  years  to.  come,  God 
perhaps  can  tell.  I  only  know  that,  wherever  that 


308  A  THOUSAND  FACES 

hard  road  may  lead  me,  thither  I  must  fare.  And — • 
wish  me  luck,  Don,  dear  old  fellow!" 

Their  hands  met  in  a  grip  that  hurt. 

"Good  luck  to  you,  boy!"  Don's  voice  broke,  at 
the  end.  Through  the  long  window  back  of  them 
stepped  Barbara,  from  the  lawn. 

"I  heard,"  she  said,  tenderly.  "I  feel  that  you  are 
right.  The  centuries  will  hear  of  you." 

"But  it's — oh — so  eternally  long  to  work!"  said 
Don,  in  a  very  shaky  voice,  as  he  put  a  hand  on  the 
shoulder  of  the  man  he  loved,  and  his  arm  around  the 
woman  of  his  heart. 

The  face  of  Harold  still  wore  its  look  of  consecra 
tion  to  a  high  work,  afar. 

"God  waits !"  he  whispered. 


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